Who Is Mercy Wild Chapter 5
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Who Is Mercy Wild? Chapter 4 free porn video
WARNING: You must read Chapters 1 through 3 first, or this won't
make any sense at all.
If you are unsure how to find them, look under the authors' names
search, find mine, and Chapters 1 through 3 of the story will be
there for you. For those concerned about incomplete stories,
please be assured that Dickens wrote serialised instalments of
his greatest works. He did this in order to have more time to
dress naughty and dance the can-can at pubs all over Western
Europe.
For those incensed that Jacquie would compare this stuff to
Dickens, well sue me!
Who Is Mercy Wild? Chapter 4
By Jacquie Windsor
[email protected]
While time fled for Cynthia and Rebekkah, Boadie and Brent
watched it crawl by like a wounded serpent. The burly drummer was
interested in the large stone box in the middle of the room,
while Gearjammer's rhythm guitarist continued to rest in languid
innocence on a bench.
"Hey Brent," announced Boadie, "this box looks like the lid could
be took off of it.
How much do you think it weighs?"
Brent snickered, assuming that the biggest member of the band was
pulling his leg.
"Look, there's definitely a crack, like where the top was put
on," Boadie continued. "I don't think it would be that hard to
just push it off."
"Why?"
"Just because. You know, to see what's inside. Maybe it's full of
diamonds or something. Maybe we could pocket whatever it is and
get away with it."
"You just like wrecking things, Boadie."
"Oh!" cried the drummer in mock hysterics. "Brent the Dutch Boy
don't wanna wreck nothing. What a laugh riot you are, buddy. That
gig at the Masonic Temple in Palo Alto with Agent Orange you sure
looked like the Jesus Christ of not wrecking shit. You were so
plastered on Ne Plus Ultra that your brain was a puddle."
"Shit, Boadie, I don't even remember that."
The drummer chortled in a booming echo.
"You couldn't remember breaking down the back door of the place
cause you thought you were locked out. Couldn't even find the
fucking front door, you were so wasted. Broke in and found the
stairs down to where the KKK or whoever kept their Mason clothes.
You wound up wearing some freaky Mason shit and running back up
into the gig like you were Batman.
"When they finally tackled you and got you calmed down--took all
the security in the place and they were surfer boys who lived on
breaking heads at gigs--that was the end of ever having bands
play at Masonic Temples anywhere. I think they must've made you
the poster boy for vandalism. They charged the people that put on
that show about $30,000. You wrecked the goddamned chandelier by
throwing a drapery you'd ripped down, right up over it, and
climbed halfway up before it fell. You would've killed yourself
if everyone hadn't dragged your legs away from it. Hey, but you
sure put the zing into the stupid surfer crap they were playing.
You did it, man. You were crazy and you were fucking great."
Brent grinned as Boadie regaled him with past glory. It always
seemed like he was right in the middle of any memorable event.
Memorable for those more conscious at that the time, though,
since his actions were frequently the product of an alcoholic
haze.
"Well, pop out the expensive scotch and I'll do it," he muttered.
Boadie pretended to pat himself down. He glared in mock horror at
Brent.
"Shit. I am fresh out of Ne Plus Ultra, Brent. I don't see any
cupboards in here to hide any neither. I guess you'll just have
to commit some vandalism without booze. Can you do it? Can you
manage it? Hey Brent, can you survive it?"
Brent leaped to his feet, as though to attack Boadie for his
insolence. A rush of blood and adrenaline made him suddenly
dizzy, and he paused to regain his senses. Once he stopped
hyperventilating, he found himself satisfied that the drummer had
meant no insult.
"Y'know, that's a good idea. Let's get the top off this piece of
crap, sngkgk."
"First smart thing you said in eighty years," Boadie grinned. He
stalked over to the solid stone box and began to wrestle with the
slab covering. Brent moved towards the box, too, and bent forward
to increase his leverage. As they grunted and sweated, never
budging the stone, the rhythm guitarist let his gaze relax upon
the rich images carved into its side.
He could swear that three of the figures raised in relief had,
moments before, been those of nubile waifs. As he continued to
stare, pushing on the stone, the three waifs transformed into
likenesses of Alex Lifeson, Geddy Lee and Neil Peart, the trio
comprising "Rush". He blinked and pulled away from the stone,
feeling as though the box itself was causing him to imagine
things.
"Brent. What the fuck you doin'?" demanded the burly drummer.
"You know what? I keep getting this idea. Like I been doing this
a long, long time.
Like I'm pushing a rock up a long hill."
Brent's explanation descended into an obstinate babble that
appalled and confused Boadie at the same time.
"Like I keep getting smarter and then stupid and then really
smart again. I remember I had to read a story in junior high
about that. 'Flowers for Algernon'. It's this guy who's all
genius and then his mouse dies and so he gets stupid again. Never
figured it out. It's a story by Daniel Keyes, I think. I think
that's the guy's name."
Brent stood up, glancing at the relief on the box. Clearly, there
was "Rush", in all their second-rate concert-rock glory, etched
prominently on the side of the casket.
"Keyes. Yeah, not confusing it with Kesey. Ken Kesey was the
"Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test". And not with Keynes either. John
Maynard Keynes, like a three-barrelled name, an economist. Should
have written "Economic Kool-Aid Acid Test" or something."
The incoherence of his rhythm guitarist caused Boadie to forget
about removing the top from the stone object. He felt like
knocking some sense into his bandmate first.
"Boadie, just listen, I know it sounds all weird, but I am
remembering all this stuff like I know it, like I'm not just a
stupid beer-drinking idiot. I hear that thing from that other
story too...it was junior high too, I know."
Brent waved his hands about, speaking excitedly about the stories
and the memories.
Boadie's confusion increased with each animated phrase.
"Damn, that was it. I can hear it, it's a 'pocketa-pocketa-
pocketa' sound like in that Walter Mitty story. Every time he
knew something was going to happen, that was just a 'pocketa'
sound."
Brent touched his ear and stared at one of the bare walls of the
castle chamber.
"Not empty. It's a 'pocketa' sound. You hear it, Boadie, right?
And I see it too, right there. In green crayon just like on the
walls of the Slanted House. 'Let's Lynch The Landlord.'"
Boadie strained to see anything at all on the far wall but there
was nothing there.
Brent had snapped.
"Right there!" exclaimed the Dutch Boy. "Yes, now I can see that
it's true, it's true, it's true. This landlord. This place. And
just like Jello Biafra is to the 'Dead Kennedys', Geddy Lee is to
'Rush'. It all makes so much sense now, like it's amazing."
Brent wandered over to the wall, bent forward, and retrieved a
green crayon from the ground, using his left hand. He wheeled
around and yelled, sweating, at Boadie.
"My left hand, you motherfucker. I am right-handed, and I can
write with my left hand.
The left hand. The sinister, the gauche, the outcast."
He turned back to face the wall, and beneath the title of the
Dead Kennedys song only he could see, began to scrawl half-blind
and furiously. Boadie had not seen a green marker in his
guitarist's hand, but the message now being written was
completely visible to him.
"Testimonium ignorantiae vestrae, quae iniquitatem dum defendit,
revincit, in promptu est."
Brent finished writing and turned back to face Boadie, the whole
room pounding with a searing 'pocketa-pocketa-pocketa'.
"What's that say? Fuck it, Boadie, what does that say?"
Boadie opened his mouth and felt as though the words were being
forced through his teeth as a dying breath, a death rattle:
"Evidence of your ignorance, which refutes your wickedness even
while supposedly defending it, is at hand..."
"Hands up, who wants to die?" boomed a disembodied voice,
pounding into both Brent and Boadie, not from within the room,
but from the room itself.
Shivering and almost collapsing to their knees, the two
Gearjammer alumni watched in stunned amazement as the rock on the
wall bearing the ancient Tertullian quote pulsed with a
tremendous 'pocketa-pocketa-pocketa', bending and forming around
a creature so horrible that Christians would have leapt gladly
into the lions' mouths to escape it. It's face curled in a
contemptuous sneer, and it loped like a powerful, wounded animal,
escaping effortlessly from the stone with something like seaweed
trailing off its limbs. The pounding rhythm kept pace with its
unusual gait.
"Ah fled this fuckin' heap on doctored wings..." it shrieked,
although it's wings trailed on the ground lifeless. "Mah flailin
pinions, with splints and rags and crutches..."
This howling mania was thorough nonsense to Boadie, but Brent
smiled wanly at the black, grey, green beast as it scrambled
towards the huge stone box in the centre of the room. The
rhythmic, grinding, senseless, shuffling monster melded with the
shriek of dactylic meter.
"...ah caint tolerate this ol tin-tub so fulla trash and rats!
Felt one crawl across mah soul..."
Most of the lyrics were lost in the constant howling echo that
reverberated against each stonewall and back again, colliding in
a chaotic din. The creature stopped and glowered at the box, then
seized its corners with its hands like pliers. Its arm span was
that wide, easily seizing the lid and raising it off its
moorings, as easily as a child would raise a toy airplane and
cause it to fly.
"...And Lord shakin, even then was dumpt into some icy font, like
some great stinky unclean..."
The shrieking voice slid into meaningless confusion again, amid
the roaring 'pocketa-pocketa-pocketa'. With a single heave, the
smelly giant monster threw the great stone lid against the wall
facing the sea, where it blew apart into dust. A grand, crashing,
terrible noise that shuddered and screamed like a freight train.
"...Wrapped in mah mongrel wings, ah nearly freeze in the howlin
wind and drivin rain...
The beast lumbered over to a shuttered window and parted it,
staring almost intelligently downward at the water. It turned
slowly around and pointed around the room with its deceptively
strong hands, thin and clumsy when not prying one-tonne objects
apart and reducing them to powder.
"...If this is Heaven ah'm bailin out! (Ars infectio forco Dio)
To the plank!"
The creature turned around slowly, leaving Brent and Boadie
stunned on the floor. The steady din began to fade, and the beast
punched through the grating that kept the violent or the curious
outside the castle, then it hunched itself up onto the sill and
contemplated the jump. This window was high up the cliff, just as
the one through which Scott had slipped before he fell into the
arms of a flock of shrieking flying creatures.
"...Ah see them...ah must save them...the little fishes are
submerged...ah must save mah little fishes lest they drown..."
Then the powerful thing leapt, crying one last time 'ah'm bailin
out!', before plunging downwards into the white-capped sea.
"Now that was more than just a little strange," murmured Boadie,
looking over towards Brent, who seemed to detect his every word
as a lip-reader. The pounding echo settled into quietude in their
heads, yet the confusion of the beast's rapid, powerful, and
unusual presence continued its effects. And the room still stank
like something between a corpse and a barnyard.
The drummer lifted himself from the floor and crunched over the
powdery remains of the sarcophagus lid to peer through the
window. Looking down, he couldn't tell whether the monster
remained below, since its colouring was indistinguishable from
the darkening sea.
Brent got up too. He began to follow the drummer when a movement
drew his attention from the window. A figure appeared to be
rising from the massive stone box, sitting up in its place.
"Boadie. Hey, Boadie, look at this, man."
The drummer stood back from the sill and his eyes widened at the
greying appearance of a gaunt figure emerging slowly from the
box. He froze.
The figure's eyes flickered in the dim light of the chamber,
grabbing onto the stone sides of the casket to help itself up.
Gradually it was able to clamber out of the box, standing between
the two members of Gearjammer and the only exit from the room, if
one didn't count the window.
"What the fuck are you?" challenged Boadie.
"My name is Kepler," answered the figure. He began to idly dust
himself off, appearing to easily comprehend his surroundings, and
the motivations of the two American musicians.
Brent wagged his finger towards the old man: "Kepler. Kesey.
Keynes. Keyes. It's really the 'Land of the Living K-People'
today."
Boadie shook his head. He looked back across the room, to see if
the wall through which the beast had come was still there.
Indeed, the green scrawling that had been put there by his rhythm
guitarist was still there, and there was no sign of damage to the
stone surface. It made no sense to him, but it seemed to be
making sense to Brent. That was unlikely. The Dutch boy had never
been able to figure out anything unless it was spelled out for
him, or was accompanied by a free glass of scotch.
"Okay, wise guys, who the fuck is Kepler. You got me."
"Johannes Kepler, of course," Brent nodded. "Lived around the
same time as Shakespeare. A mathematician born somewhere in
what's now southern Germany. Well, southern West Germany."
The old man likewise nodded agreeably. Boadie was incensed by
this delusional conversation.
"Right. All right. You guys, you and you, are fucking with my
head. If you are some old dead German, why are you speaking
English?"
"Because English is the language of the dead," answered Kepler.
"Really?" Brent wondered aloud.
"Oh naturally," responded the mathematician, "since everyone
knows that Latin is language of the living. You both have
experienced that, I must assume, or you wouldn't be here."
Boadie looked deeply at the ceiling. He thought quickly about the
ridiculous contract they had signed to allow this whole batty
adventure to unfold. The writing on some of the pages was in some
language that none of Gearjammer could understand. It might have
been Latin. Or Swahili. Or Martian. The old man from the
sarcophagus had a point, but there was no way to prove it either
way.
"Well, then Shakespeare must be dead," Boadie mused. "Writing in
English and everything."
"Not at all," replied Kepler. "I'm here, I am pretty much alive,
obviously, and as your Dutch friend said, I lived around the same
time as Shakespeare."
Brent grinned at Kepler's impenetrable logic. "I know even more
about you. Your mom was a sorceress."
"Rumour."
"Sure she was. Otherwise you couldn't possibly be back to the
living world almost four hundred years later."
"Four hundred years? Say, what year is it?"
"It's 1985," Boadie replied languidly. "And I think you're still
at least half dead."
His eyes fell to Kepler's left arm. Kepler traced the drummer's
gaze and noticed a lesion festering on his limb.
"True. The coach I employ for travel is not guaranteed to
preserve everything. Quite sufficient to function, though."
Kepler extended his left arm, testing its strength.
"So. 1985. Is that Anno Domini?"
"Year of our Lord," Brent translated, again to Boadie's
disappointment. "Why would it be anything else? I mean, before
Christ, that would be a hell of a long time ago."
"This place was bathed in mystery even then," answered Kepler.
"These coasts, all the way to Venice, are ancient and vital.
Nothing changes the way it is. Why, I myself, as a fugitive from
the Austrian duke, was doubly endangered when I fled to these
parts and had to battle pirates. Ottoman pirates. Local pirates.
Venetian, Tyrrhenian, Apulian, Sicilian, Neapolitan and Illyrian
pirates. That's tough on a mathematician."
"I bet," shrugged Boadie.
"It all returns to the harmonies since, as you musicians must
know, there is an inextricable marriage of mathematics and music.
And the harmonies are what I learned from my dear mother. It was
only jealousy that converted something so pure into the perfidy
of witchcraft. I wouldn't expect each of you to comprehend that
anyhow."
"I believe I do," offered the Dutch boy. "There were five of us
who signed up to tour, but there are just four of us now. And if
I remember my Kepler correctly, that would be the smallest number
of sides and edges of any Platonic solid."
Boadie winced and blinked at the full-blown genius of the rhythm
guitarist. He thought he detected a shine emanating from within
the otherwise brainless musician. It rather frightened him. Up to
this point, he'd always expected to be the alpha of the group. If
Brent knew things he didn't understand, then the tyranny of ego
and physical power meant less. And the physical power had already
diminished itself considerably when the flailing monster had done
the work of freeing this Kepler from his stone cocoon.
"Four sides to the tetrahedron. Very well, O Pupil," sighed the
old mathematician. "With that in mind, however, it must be the
one less pointed triangle that will conjure the magic required in
this place. One of you is just an extra."
"I bet I know what you're thinking," Boadie rasped. "That dumb
fucker is the right one and I ain't. I won't have it."
The drummer blustered in reddening anger. This mood deepened into
fury as Brent simply stood there watching, admiring the way that
Kepler approved of his newfound knowledge.
"I've had it with this fucking shit," roared Boadie. He shook a
fist towards the pair and stomped out of the chamber. It was his
careless, fleeting footsteps that Rebekkah and Cynthia had heard
when they emerged from the adjacent room.
As soon as he left, the greying figure of Kepler waved his good
arm in a solemn gesture towards the entranceway, sealing it as
solidly as the walls.
"His sour disposition is terribly difficult for the rest of you,
I imagine," said Kepler.
"Oh yes, it's so true," agreed Brent. "He gets upset at the
slightest thing, especially if it gets in the way of what he
wants to do. He always liked having Scott and me intoxicated,
because it made him seem so much more reasonable. Truthfully, I
never thought he was."
"You don't have to deny who you are or what you've done." Kepler
wagged his head gravely. "There is always time for atonement
while your heart still beats."
"Atonement? Well, that I don't get. I'm not some religious nut."
Kepler chuckled, his throat flapping and rattling as he did. "I
don't mean some Christian thing. Atonement is not a great leap
from tone. Tone is what I am, was, about. And many more before
me. It was only the Renaissance that appeared to divorce music
and mathematics from truth and honour. I was paid half of what a
theologian would make as a professor at Tubingen. That's why I
had to create astrological charts for royalty in my spare time.
Even the great Newton was first a theologian and second a
physicist."
"How can you know that stuff?" inquired the Dutch boy. "Newton
was way after you."
"You still see time as something more than a matter of
convenience. It only helps you arrange things. It has nothing to
do with relevance. All these things are known and created without
your participation. They're just arranged so you can protect your
sanity."
"Arranged? By whom?"
"Ha! If I knew that, I'd be a demi-urge, wouldn't I? I am not a
creator, but a simple lover of harmony. And you are Harmony."
Kepler nodded at the rhythm guitarist.
"If you look into my stone carriage, Harmony, you will find some
clothes that are far more suitable for your calling."
Brent's ungainly soul had been transformed over the course of the
entire episode. It was a sensuous replacement of his preferences
for drink, loud music and ignorance, with rapidly growing
preferences for consciousness, loud music and delightful wisdom.
The emotional and intellectual healing had blinded him to the
effective physical change, which happened more suddenly once
Boadie left the room.
As Harmony, she felt her breasts swell inside her confining T-
shirt.
"I'll just sit over here while you change," smiled Kepler. "And
don't think anything of it; it's not as though I haven't seen a
naked woman before."
Harmony returned the friendly gaze of the old man and stripped
out of her clothes.
"Are these, perhaps, what gave you the idea for describing the
properties of ellipses?"
The voluptuous girl smoothed her hands slowly over a pair of
large, weighty breasts protruding from her chest.
"Only when they're in motion," nodded Kepler. "Now please do get
dressed. I may appear to be mostly dead, but I can assure you I
am quite alive in all respects."
Harmony plunged her arms into the sarcophagus to find a white
garment, embroidered at the edges with tiny beads in a recursive
sparkling zigzag pattern. It was neatly pressed as though
recently ironed, and fit her terrific curves with little
adjustment.
"You look like a million ducats," sighed Kepler. "With such
flawless skin, too, you would have been a duchess in my day."
"What's to become of me? And the others? And Boadie?" Harmony
asked. "Not that I would complain about this, but I shouldn't
want them to feel left out."
"If this is part of what I think it may be," replied the
mathematician, "nobody will be left out."
[email protected]
This is the fourth chapter of a continuing story. We will be back
soon!
Certain portions of this chapter use direct quotes from "Mutiny
In Heaven" by The
Birthday Party. C. 1983
Page 8 22/07/01
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