Haus of Foolishness

Old Work

I was going through some old folders on my computer, and stumbled upon a pastiche I did in 9th grade. It was modeled after Kafka’s Metamorphosis. I just reread it, and it’s not bad at all…had a twisted mind though…forever and always ;)

Christopher Kint suddenly awoke in the middle of the night from a recurring nightmare that plagued him ever-so-often. The faceless man conjectured by his subconscious had attempted to snatch him away during the night, again. Why? Because he had forgotten to lock the door! The door! He had to check the door now. Christopher quickly slipped out of bed and made his way to the flats entrance. Dead bolt in, the door locked. He let out a heavy sigh of relief and went over to the kitchen sink. The dark figure would not steal him away-at least not tonight. He leaned against the counter and gripped if for support, feeling a little light-headed, most likely from bolting out of bed so quickly. Everything felt hazy, and the little light that leaked from the moon, which was covered in shapeless clouds, cast strange shadows about his cramped apartment. The darkness still scared Christopher.

            His kitchen table was littered with photos, photos of the victims which his fellow con-men had finished off. Some for money, some for drugs; he didn’t really care. Not once did Christopher stop to think about the smiling physiognomies-he didn’t really bother himself with thoughts of that sort. Instead he proceeded to make himself a sandwich, setting his meal on that very table, and spilling some coffee onto a picture of a beautiful young woman. He kept that one in view because he admired her fur coat. Dawn was beginning to break, but the streets outside remained misty from what Christopher could see-the sky littered with foreboding cumulonimbus. He finished off his sandwich, and leaning back comfortably, propped his feet upon the table, on top of the deceased strangers. He was beginning to feel better, apart from a faint drowsiness that was superfluous after such a deep sleep and some caffeine.

            McGerkin would be arriving soon. He was his boss’s henchman; ugly with mouse-like features. He was a creature of the boss, empty headed yet imposing and bulky, continuously belittling Christopher for his inability to steal human life. He was so ashamed by this that he tried to practice on small animals, but even that didn’t work. He didn’t fancy the stench of blood-and it was so sticky. McGerkin always got the dirty job done though, for he was bound by few morals. The rattling of a door knob pulled him from his thoughts, and he nearly stumbled from his chair. The door! The faceless apparition was here to snatch him away at last! Christopher jumped from the chair and cowered in a dark corner until a loud voice boomed: “Christopher! Get out of bed and open up!” It was the boss’s hound come to wake him. He got up and opened the door, allowing McGerkin to barge in. “A quarter past seven already and still such a thick fog outside,” stated Christopher. McGerkin huffed, “What are you waiting for? Go get dressed!” His actions annoyed Christopher, and more through agitation than will, Christopher flung himself off the wall and into the bathroom to cleanup. When he emerged, McGerkin was halfway through a whiskey bottle Christopher had bought himself. Shrugging it off, the two men descended the stairs, into the streets where a dense grey fog continued to swirl. They arrived at the hovel they claimed as their headquarters and walked in to meet the boss and the rest of the con-men; each looked up with beady eyes, twisted features, and broken noses, yet glowing with an odd aurora of power and control. Christopher felt strangely out of place with these men. The smoke they exhaled curled around Christopher; the boss smirked, and began his proposition for Mr. Kint.

            “I cannot do this! I simply can’t,” exclaimed Christopher as he began to choke on his words-the room grew stuffy and he began to sweat. “I’ve tried, sir, I really have…perhaps, perhaps, if you give me some more time,” he begged. “Enough,” seethed his satanic superior. Christopher’s head began to swirl as Lucifer himself approached him, flicking his cane from side to side as if it were his own rouge tail. “You’ll do what I’ve ordered you to do, and McGerkin will make sure of that, and I suggest that you try your hardest unless you want me to burry you six feet under where a spineless waste-of-space such as yourself belongs, another snap-shot for the collection of departed strangers you have littering your apartment,” and with that he struck Christopher in the knee with his cane, knocking him over. Christopher blurted a shrill yes, promptly cupping his mouth right after, sitting up, and nursing his leg. With roaring laughs and churning smoke of tar and ash, the men made their way outside, McGerkin stopping only to hand Christopher a shiny colt.

            Christopher could hardly sleep at all that night. He was haunted by the idea that the next time his floor creaked, the boss would come to drag him to his grave. In his thoughts he appeared, along with his minions, the woman from the photograph in her plush fur coat, the gun, a coffin. Christopher reluctantly rose, and with shaky hands, grabbed the colt from his dresser and made his way downtown in a frightened daze, passing laughing families and lovers huddled in embrace. It was now midnight. He crept inside the house and hid in the darkest corner unnoticed by the stranger retiring to bed. The clouds obstructing the moon began to disperse and the light now filtered into the bedroom, upon the victim. Christopher knew McGerkin was watching from the apartment across the street-it was now or never. Do it, he screamed inside himself, do it, you bastardly coward-and in a fit of rage, from anger towards himself for being such a faint-hearted weakling, and anger towards all the humiliation he had endured, he lifted his trembling arm and a loud bang, followed by a hollow thud echoed. What happened next, surprised him-Christopher laughed a maniacal laugh. This felt good! One twitch of a finger and the man was gone-what control! Simply fascinating, he thought. A new urge overcame him-need; he wanted to do it again. He walked across the street to McGerkin who greeted him with a big smile and held out his hand for a nice shake, yet Christopher didn’t take it. He simply beamed, lifted the beautiful contraption and shot McGerkin in the head. And it was like a dam had broken within Christopher as he signed away his soul and smiled, knowing he could finally please Lucifer.

            A loud thump woke Christopher Kint up. The door handle to his apartment rattled, but he simply stretched and rubbed his eyes. He yawned once and looked out the window to see the bright sunlight flooding his room. He heard a loud voice boom, “Christopher! Get out of bed and open up!” It was McGerkin. Christopher slipped out of bed, walked to his dresser, pausing for a moment, and then went towards the front door. Smiling, he opened it and lifted his steady arm.