Forget About Me: 7th Floor
I've been extremely humbled and flattered at all the positive praise I've been getting about this story so far, and I'd like to thank everyone for their continued criticism and engagement with the story. I'm really, really happy that you're all taking to it so well. It gives me a lot of confidence in the work, in my work, that I hadn't realized I'd been lacking. So thank you, sincerely, for that.
I'm tempted to explain myself for what is going to happen from this floor on, but I'll reserve it for the comment response. Or maybe not.
7th Floor
This was nice.
The whole floor had a late-afternoon glow to it. I could smell meat cooking on a barbecue behind a low brick wall in the rear corner of the floor. No smoke hung in the air. An air of complete comfort hung over the entire story. I felt better than I had in a month. The man in the rocking chair smiled as he watched me take in my surroundings. For the first time since I’d been there, the song in my head stopped playing. Even the stinging in my left hand seemed to stop.
“Howdy.”
He spoke with a slow New Orleans accent.
“S’not impossible, y’know. Stranger things happened.”
“Not to me.”
“Have a seat, son.”
He waved his pocketknife at an empty wicker chair next to him, which faced the brightly lit wall across the room. He kept smiling, not unkindly, as if he was amused by my appearance. I must have looked pretty rattled by then.
“Name Bart. Butcher Bart, but you call me Bart.”
“Fig. Nice to meet you.”
“No it ain’t, son. Don’ bullshit me. I know you scared still, don’ worry. You can stay here long’s you want, though I know you prolly be gettin’ on soon, huh?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Ain’ nothing be sorry ‘bout, son. You havin’ trouble so fah?”
“There have been better times, Bart.”
He laughed a deep, appreciative laugh, hawking up a great glob in his throat and depositing it into the spittoon before he continued.
“Damn. Know, I’m impressed so fah. You got through dat maze faster’n anyone I evah seen go through.”
“You saw that?”
“Well… no. Heh. No… once you in de buildin’, you know what goes on in it. Part a’ de deal, I guess.”
“In the building?”
He picked up a corncob pipe from the ground near his feet, dusted it off and tapped the spent tobacco out of the bowl.
“I don’ suppose De’Sang filled you in any better he did me.”
“You know De’Sang?”
“Hell, son, I work for the cocksucker fo’ 10 year ‘fore he threw me in heyah. Where my matches, nah…”
He patted his unfastened overalls until he found an old, old book of matches and a small, cloth tobacco sack. He began to fill his pipe.
“I guess you know ‘bout de whole voo-doo ting, yeh?”
“Yeah.” After what happened to Rudy, yeah. I knew about it.
“You believe it yet?”
I paused.
“Not really.”
“No… no, course not. Now, you’d seen the man used to be on dis heyah floor, you believe. Oh… you believe. Scared the sheeit outta me. I gave up right outside.”
“What?”
Bart lit his pipe and puffed it thoughtfully. The smell of the tobacco and the cooking meat was intoxicating.
“De way dis place works, best as I can figure, is you go as far as you can… and then, when you too tired o’ too scared o’ too stupid to keep goin’, you give up, and you take over fo’ whoevah or whatevah was in dat floor ‘fore you. Unnuhstan’?”
“No.”
“See… s’like a prison fo’ De’Sang. I’s the best damn hammah he had, and one time I slip up and he throw me in heyah. I tink, ‘Good deal.’ Prolly like you thinkin’ at de staht, yeh?”
“Right.”
“Right. So, I get past the Dahkness… dat Maze… e’en dat old fukah wit’ de big head, and once I get heyah, deyah’s dis big fuckin’ machine take up de whole flo’… just a bunch o’ blades and knives and such, wid a big pair o’ jaws, like a hound o’ sometin, right in de middle. Meanest lookin’ ting you evah saw, son, I tell you dat much, and I decide, ‘Fuck, I ain’t goin’ in deyah. I’ll stay heyah instead.’ Next ting I know, I’m in de floor, de machine’s gone, and I… don’ know how te say it cep’… I’m in charge. O’ de floor.”
“Huh.”
“Good ting, too. I know wha’s on de udduh floors nah, and I glad I din’ keep goin’.”
“So what happened to the machine?”
“Gone. Ain’t heyah, no more, least. Best I figyuh, if a body take yo’ spot, you rest. Can’t be sho’ though, till it happen to me.”
“So you control this place?”
“Mmm. S’mo’ like what I want, it is. Udduh folk get caught in heyah, dey crazy o’ dey too busy tryin’ to bring udduhs in, dey don’ tink ‘bout what dey want, so dey don’t live so well. Me, I don’ see why I can’t just stay heyah fo’ de rest o’ time. Ain’ so bad.
“No it ain’t, Bart. Not at all.”
“You wanna beeyah?”
I almost swallowed my throat.
“Yeah.”
Bart handed me a beer out of a cooler I hadn’t noticed before next to his chair and took one for himself. The can almost hurt my hand it was so cold, stinging me on the scrape, but the beer tasted as good as any I had ever had. Bart gulped his happily, content not to speak until it was gone. I finished mine, which he waited patiently for, and smiled at the look on my face.
“Figyuh’d you could use dat.” I laughed.
“Hell, Bart, I don’t even want to leave, after what I’ve been through.”
He fixed me with a look so solemn I would not have thought it possible from such a jolly character.
“Son, deyah’s two ways out o’ dis. One, you die. Two, you get to the first floor and you get out. Now I nevah seen anyone do it yet, but I nevah seen anyone come as fah as you have neithah, ‘cep me. Only one person in my time got past the Maze without stahvin’ to death ‘fore he figyuh’d it out, and dat was only cause De’Sang put him in here special ‘stead o’ lettin’ him try to get out.”
“De’Sang just stuck him in here?”
“1st floor. I guess he thought the ol’ guy used to be deyah wadn’t mean enough... to easy to get past. Wanted a bettah ting ta keep ‘em from gettin’ out. Don’ know, be honest. I don’ tink he so daynjrous. Point is, you de only boy so fah made it to me, and I tink you can get outta heyah. ‘Sides, you stay heyah wi’ me, I get kicked out, and dat wouldn’ be no way o’ retoihnin’ de hospitality, nah, would it?”
“No. No it wouldn’t.” I almost felt ashamed for thinking it. Bart read it on my face.
“Nah don’t get down, son! I know you weren’ tinkin’ serious ‘bout stayin’, e’en if you don’. If you really was gon’ stay, I’d be gone already. Don’ worry, son. You hungry?”
I smiled. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m hungry.”
“Fine, den. You wait heyah. Get some food in you ‘fore you head out.”
I watched him get up slowly, the rocking chair noisily protesting the shift of his enormous bulk.
“Now, back when I worked fo’ De’Sang, dey call me da Butcha. Mos’ tink it’s cause I so mean to dem who cross Mistuh De’Sang. Ain’ true. I had a butcha shop, down in Nahlins. Nices’ lil’ shop you evah did see, son.”
He sauntered over to a wall near the barbecue and picked out a cleaver, which had been hanging on the wall next to barbecue tongs and forks, a few meat tenderizers and a chopping block.
“I don’ mean I wasn’ mean. I’s mean, but de name got stahted in de shop.”
He walked over the barbecue and flipped a few steaks onto a plate near the grill. He waited a while for the other two to finish.
“I rough people up somethin’ fierce, son. Teach dem not to mess wit’ us, know? Kinda’ lesson o’ somethin’. Trouble was, wit’ po-lice trainin’ de rivahs each day shootin’ fo’ nutria and such, da’s dem big ugly-lookin’ rats, nah, and the grass-land bein’ closed off and patroled like it was, you couldn’ hide any evidence aftah’ yo woik was done. Made my job downrigh’ difficul’.”
He poked at one of the steaks with his cleaver. The juices caused the flames to sputter and flare.
“Now, me ownin’ a butcha shop, I know somethin’ ‘bout preparin’ meat. I know wheyah to cut to make it hurt more, but I know wheyah to cut to make it quick, too. I’s good, son. After a while, ‘got good enough to see a way out o’ my problem. ‘Know, if you know how to cut it, all meat looks de same.”
The flames licked the two steaks. Bart decided on was done and slapped it on the plate, but waited a little while longer for the other.
“Folk’ din’ notice. Nobody evah found de guys I took ca’ of. I’s e’en makin’ some money off it. I thought I’s doin’ good.”
The last steak finished, Bart threw it into the pile with the others, then turned to the low brick wall and bent down, looking at something hidden from my view.
“One day, De’Sang come an’ see me in my shop. Say he don’ like de way I been doin’ tings, say I need to learn a lesson. Me. Learn a lesson, aftah all I done fo’ him. So he trows me in heyah. Still makes me sick to tink o’ it. Like I say, doh, ain’ so bad.”
With a strange look in his eye I hadn’t seen until that moment, he seized something behind the wall in his left hand and, cleaver in his right, started hacking away at it. Over the loud thwacks of his cleaver, I though I heard a weak yelp of pain, something sobbing… something trying to scream.
He pulled up a large, red piece of meat and threw it sizzling onto the barbecue. He turned to look at me, holding the plate in his hand.
“Voo-doo morals, son. Damndest ting. You like yours well done?
I didn’t stop running till I was down the stairwell to the next floor.
I'm tempted to explain myself for what is going to happen from this floor on, but I'll reserve it for the comment response. Or maybe not.
7th Floor
This was nice.
The whole floor had a late-afternoon glow to it. I could smell meat cooking on a barbecue behind a low brick wall in the rear corner of the floor. No smoke hung in the air. An air of complete comfort hung over the entire story. I felt better than I had in a month. The man in the rocking chair smiled as he watched me take in my surroundings. For the first time since I’d been there, the song in my head stopped playing. Even the stinging in my left hand seemed to stop.
“Howdy.”
He spoke with a slow New Orleans accent.
“S’not impossible, y’know. Stranger things happened.”
“Not to me.”
“Have a seat, son.”
He waved his pocketknife at an empty wicker chair next to him, which faced the brightly lit wall across the room. He kept smiling, not unkindly, as if he was amused by my appearance. I must have looked pretty rattled by then.
“Name Bart. Butcher Bart, but you call me Bart.”
“Fig. Nice to meet you.”
“No it ain’t, son. Don’ bullshit me. I know you scared still, don’ worry. You can stay here long’s you want, though I know you prolly be gettin’ on soon, huh?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Ain’ nothing be sorry ‘bout, son. You havin’ trouble so fah?”
“There have been better times, Bart.”
He laughed a deep, appreciative laugh, hawking up a great glob in his throat and depositing it into the spittoon before he continued.
“Damn. Know, I’m impressed so fah. You got through dat maze faster’n anyone I evah seen go through.”
“You saw that?”
“Well… no. Heh. No… once you in de buildin’, you know what goes on in it. Part a’ de deal, I guess.”
“In the building?”
He picked up a corncob pipe from the ground near his feet, dusted it off and tapped the spent tobacco out of the bowl.
“I don’ suppose De’Sang filled you in any better he did me.”
“You know De’Sang?”
“Hell, son, I work for the cocksucker fo’ 10 year ‘fore he threw me in heyah. Where my matches, nah…”
He patted his unfastened overalls until he found an old, old book of matches and a small, cloth tobacco sack. He began to fill his pipe.
“I guess you know ‘bout de whole voo-doo ting, yeh?”
“Yeah.” After what happened to Rudy, yeah. I knew about it.
“You believe it yet?”
I paused.
“Not really.”
“No… no, course not. Now, you’d seen the man used to be on dis heyah floor, you believe. Oh… you believe. Scared the sheeit outta me. I gave up right outside.”
“What?”
Bart lit his pipe and puffed it thoughtfully. The smell of the tobacco and the cooking meat was intoxicating.
“De way dis place works, best as I can figure, is you go as far as you can… and then, when you too tired o’ too scared o’ too stupid to keep goin’, you give up, and you take over fo’ whoevah or whatevah was in dat floor ‘fore you. Unnuhstan’?”
“No.”
“See… s’like a prison fo’ De’Sang. I’s the best damn hammah he had, and one time I slip up and he throw me in heyah. I tink, ‘Good deal.’ Prolly like you thinkin’ at de staht, yeh?”
“Right.”
“Right. So, I get past the Dahkness… dat Maze… e’en dat old fukah wit’ de big head, and once I get heyah, deyah’s dis big fuckin’ machine take up de whole flo’… just a bunch o’ blades and knives and such, wid a big pair o’ jaws, like a hound o’ sometin, right in de middle. Meanest lookin’ ting you evah saw, son, I tell you dat much, and I decide, ‘Fuck, I ain’t goin’ in deyah. I’ll stay heyah instead.’ Next ting I know, I’m in de floor, de machine’s gone, and I… don’ know how te say it cep’… I’m in charge. O’ de floor.”
“Huh.”
“Good ting, too. I know wha’s on de udduh floors nah, and I glad I din’ keep goin’.”
“So what happened to the machine?”
“Gone. Ain’t heyah, no more, least. Best I figyuh, if a body take yo’ spot, you rest. Can’t be sho’ though, till it happen to me.”
“So you control this place?”
“Mmm. S’mo’ like what I want, it is. Udduh folk get caught in heyah, dey crazy o’ dey too busy tryin’ to bring udduhs in, dey don’ tink ‘bout what dey want, so dey don’t live so well. Me, I don’ see why I can’t just stay heyah fo’ de rest o’ time. Ain’ so bad.
“No it ain’t, Bart. Not at all.”
“You wanna beeyah?”
I almost swallowed my throat.
“Yeah.”
Bart handed me a beer out of a cooler I hadn’t noticed before next to his chair and took one for himself. The can almost hurt my hand it was so cold, stinging me on the scrape, but the beer tasted as good as any I had ever had. Bart gulped his happily, content not to speak until it was gone. I finished mine, which he waited patiently for, and smiled at the look on my face.
“Figyuh’d you could use dat.” I laughed.
“Hell, Bart, I don’t even want to leave, after what I’ve been through.”
He fixed me with a look so solemn I would not have thought it possible from such a jolly character.
“Son, deyah’s two ways out o’ dis. One, you die. Two, you get to the first floor and you get out. Now I nevah seen anyone do it yet, but I nevah seen anyone come as fah as you have neithah, ‘cep me. Only one person in my time got past the Maze without stahvin’ to death ‘fore he figyuh’d it out, and dat was only cause De’Sang put him in here special ‘stead o’ lettin’ him try to get out.”
“De’Sang just stuck him in here?”
“1st floor. I guess he thought the ol’ guy used to be deyah wadn’t mean enough... to easy to get past. Wanted a bettah ting ta keep ‘em from gettin’ out. Don’ know, be honest. I don’ tink he so daynjrous. Point is, you de only boy so fah made it to me, and I tink you can get outta heyah. ‘Sides, you stay heyah wi’ me, I get kicked out, and dat wouldn’ be no way o’ retoihnin’ de hospitality, nah, would it?”
“No. No it wouldn’t.” I almost felt ashamed for thinking it. Bart read it on my face.
“Nah don’t get down, son! I know you weren’ tinkin’ serious ‘bout stayin’, e’en if you don’. If you really was gon’ stay, I’d be gone already. Don’ worry, son. You hungry?”
I smiled. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m hungry.”
“Fine, den. You wait heyah. Get some food in you ‘fore you head out.”
I watched him get up slowly, the rocking chair noisily protesting the shift of his enormous bulk.
“Now, back when I worked fo’ De’Sang, dey call me da Butcha. Mos’ tink it’s cause I so mean to dem who cross Mistuh De’Sang. Ain’ true. I had a butcha shop, down in Nahlins. Nices’ lil’ shop you evah did see, son.”
He sauntered over to a wall near the barbecue and picked out a cleaver, which had been hanging on the wall next to barbecue tongs and forks, a few meat tenderizers and a chopping block.
“I don’ mean I wasn’ mean. I’s mean, but de name got stahted in de shop.”
He walked over the barbecue and flipped a few steaks onto a plate near the grill. He waited a while for the other two to finish.
“I rough people up somethin’ fierce, son. Teach dem not to mess wit’ us, know? Kinda’ lesson o’ somethin’. Trouble was, wit’ po-lice trainin’ de rivahs each day shootin’ fo’ nutria and such, da’s dem big ugly-lookin’ rats, nah, and the grass-land bein’ closed off and patroled like it was, you couldn’ hide any evidence aftah’ yo woik was done. Made my job downrigh’ difficul’.”
He poked at one of the steaks with his cleaver. The juices caused the flames to sputter and flare.
“Now, me ownin’ a butcha shop, I know somethin’ ‘bout preparin’ meat. I know wheyah to cut to make it hurt more, but I know wheyah to cut to make it quick, too. I’s good, son. After a while, ‘got good enough to see a way out o’ my problem. ‘Know, if you know how to cut it, all meat looks de same.”
The flames licked the two steaks. Bart decided on was done and slapped it on the plate, but waited a little while longer for the other.
“Folk’ din’ notice. Nobody evah found de guys I took ca’ of. I’s e’en makin’ some money off it. I thought I’s doin’ good.”
The last steak finished, Bart threw it into the pile with the others, then turned to the low brick wall and bent down, looking at something hidden from my view.
“One day, De’Sang come an’ see me in my shop. Say he don’ like de way I been doin’ tings, say I need to learn a lesson. Me. Learn a lesson, aftah all I done fo’ him. So he trows me in heyah. Still makes me sick to tink o’ it. Like I say, doh, ain’ so bad.”
With a strange look in his eye I hadn’t seen until that moment, he seized something behind the wall in his left hand and, cleaver in his right, started hacking away at it. Over the loud thwacks of his cleaver, I though I heard a weak yelp of pain, something sobbing… something trying to scream.
He pulled up a large, red piece of meat and threw it sizzling onto the barbecue. He turned to look at me, holding the plate in his hand.
“Voo-doo morals, son. Damndest ting. You like yours well done?
I didn’t stop running till I was down the stairwell to the next floor.
Submitted by DeadLanguage at 8:40 PM
4 Comments:
LOL fuck.
That was a good one max. You remember that old comedian in "The Dark Tower"? I didn't trust him for a second. I had my suspicions about this guy, but halfway through the scene he'd won me over. Son of a bitch. lol. Great work, man. I wouldn't change this one at all. I'm still eatin' up that accent. Keep em' comin'!
I KNOW! And that whole anagram thing with the street sign? COME ON! I can't believe nobody got that. It was sickening. Eddie would have vomited out of his rear had he seen them fail so miserably.
We already talked about this quite a bit, but again, for the record, I really liked this chapter Max, especially how you begin to almost like The Butcher before he creeps the hell out of you.
G'yeesh...yeah, keep it coming. I can't pinpoint where it started, but somewhere in this chapter a little dark knot of dread began to rise somewhere in my stomach. Something just wasn't quite right. But it's not until the last few lines that you really drive it home.
Interesting twists here, in more ways than one. It makes you wonder how much you can trust the Butcher's word regarding De'Sang and this building. In addition to, well, the obvious fact that you can't trust the Butcher not to be grilling up people while he makes nice with you.
Sorry for the delay in comments, but... man, this is cool.
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