Strangely Insane
By Danny Schwarzhoff
Prologue
ONE
It was not likely but Jett felt as though she must be the only girl on the entire Jutland Peninsula, maybe in all of Scandinavia, to have been late for work this morning and if she was not then surely she was the only one being treated like a sack of shit for it. Metallica had opened the night before at Vestereng and the city was being overrun with metal heads who had come from far as Australia. Most wore black tee shirts and tribal tattoos - and this morning they prowled the city in packs looking for a quick breakfast. The Mad Metal Morgenmaders she called them. They had consumed every last drop of Gammel Danke in the café that morning but they were finally thinning so that by the time the early-lunchers would could out to feed they could stream into Aarhus’s boulevards without crowding. The lull gave Jett space to breath but it also allowed her thoughts to catch up with her and right now her head was rerunning the tape of what had happened earlier.
She pulled tight the strings of her bleached bright apron up high so as to bring attention to her bosom and snatched her order book from where she had stuck it behind the coffee service before heading outside to where she needed to tend to the street side café customers that had surely been seated and waiting. Jett did not need extra amplification in the bust department but she was not one for modesty and knew that tips were always better when she posted a little advertising up top.
It may have been her Icelandic roots. Jett’s blood was the blood that runs through all Icelanders. It carries the purest of genetic coding from the Vikings. If not her genes then maybe it was her upbringing - but whatever it was Jette Thorunn Guðmundsdóttir did not act like most of the other fifteen year old girls in Denmark and she did not look like them either. Most of all she did not feel like them. Fifteen year old Danish girls have blonde hair and wholesome farm girl good looks. They are giddy and girlish f and Jett was a looker alright - only not in the same Northern European sense. She was tall and yes she did have the classically Scandinavian blue eyes of the summer sky - but she was sultry and buxom in a more cosmopolitan way than any of her peers. She could have been a Parisian model if her tits hadn’t been so big. Her dyed jet black hair made her look closer to twenty years old than she was to fifteen - and there was an absence of innocence about her. She could enslave just about anything with a penis that was fourteen to a hundred an four and she what beginning to learn it. Most of her look came out of bottles and tubes and the artful assistance of brushes and pencils.
Outside the tiny café the sun did not shine but at least it wasn’t raining anymore. Between the headbangers, many of whom had either not made it to bed the night before or were early risers - and the non-metallic tourists who regularly came for breakfast - it had been a chaotic morning at the Chick Inn café. Jett’s long raven ponytail was already unraveling and her face betrayed the resentment she had stuffed down deep into her chest for having been scolded by her boss for not being on time - again. An Ipod was plugged into a set of speakers that hung from the wall behind the cash register. From it streamed Bjork. She was singing something about earth intruders and digging up bones - of course she was. Jett poked a pencil behind one ear along with a loose strand of dark bang, putting off having to redo her hair all over again. On the Aboulevarden canal, a watercourse bordered by cafes and small shops that cut through Aarhus proper, a warm breeze dipped down to its surface leaving small wrinkles on top of its shallow water before skirting up and past the café and then down the city Centrum - a tight strip of street lined with retail stores, restaurants, cafes and European banks. A yellow canvas awning that fronted over the café patio, imprinted with modern Danish artwork, fluttered a bit, seconds before a light sprinkling began once again.
Ringo Tilley sat at a small slightly wobbly wrought iron table under the outer awning edge - barely out of reach of the drizzle, reading the morning edition of the local daily- the Stifstidende. The table shimmied under the weight of his elbow and he calmly peered beneath to see which was the offending leg.
“Hmmm.Wot’s this? Well this won’t work at all . . . .will it?” He muttered under his breath. Ever resourceful, he tore a hunk of bread off the end of his turkey and bacon baguette, licked off a gob of mayonnaise and then stuffed the crust under the short leg. “There. That’s done the trick."
Meals at the Chick Inn had become Ringo’s daily fare since arriving in AArhus three days ago - but today was to be his last day in Denmark. He had important business to conclude today before heading north for some vital business - a “Thing” with the Boss.
“Can I give you your bill now Mr. Tilley?”
“Huh? Oh yeah, yeah.” Ringo said, looking up from his newspaper. She glanced down and saw that he was reading the local obituaries. “See anyone in particular?” she asked. She was talking about the obituary but Ringo never passed up an opportunity to zing a good flirt. “Jess yew, Luv.”
“I meant in the obits Mr. Tilley.” Jett stood in front of the table with her order book and pencil - pressing her thighs against the metal table edge. A long strand of her hair fell down to her face and across one cheek, which she promptly and temporarily blew away with a quick puff over her upper lip.
“Wot’s the matter hun . . . .rough day?”
“Rough is not strong enough a word,” she said. “I cannot think of a worse word than rough right now . . . but so far today has not been good. My boss is a total asshole. . . .excuse my English Mr. Tilley. . . I was out late last night - had few to drink, you know . . . . . and this morning I came in something like ten minutes late and he starts . . . . . ”
“Now ye stop calling me Mr. Tilley.” Ringo interrupted. “Call me by the proper Christian name that me mum give me and I’ll give ye something special to brighten yer day, eh?”
Ringo sussed her face carefully looking for a particular reaction. Jett started to glow coyly - touching the eraser end of her pencil to the left corner of her lower lip. She was practiced and good at the ancient art of flirting with men and took special pleasure out of such exchanges when they were two and three times her age.
That’s it. She’s bitten. Ringo thought. This is gonna be a doodle.
“Well what is it? What are you going to give me if I call you by your Christian name?”
“Ah ah ah . . . . not so fast Luv. First let me ask ye this . . . . when was the last time ye’v been into the Domkirke?”
“I haven’t been inside in years. It’s a bit too holy for me. I was there once when I was a little girl. My father brought me. It’s a creepy kind of place as far I remember. I mean, much more so than just a church. I don’t have a religion. I mean, I don’t think I even believe in God or in saints and miracles and things like that. All those paintings and statues make me feel a little queasy. Why do you ask?”
“Don’t believe in God then?”
“Look Mr. Till -- I mean . . . oh hey. . . I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“No offense taken Luv. Don’t give it another thought.”
“Are you asking me out . . . . on a date . . . to the Domkirke? The Cathedral?” Her voice turned chuckley - she did not think it was a serious question and now she hoped there was no serious answer to it either.
“I mean, if you’re a religious type or something . . . .I really don’t want to hurt your feelings or anything . . . . but I . . .”
Ringo rescued her. “Oh yes. I am a true believer. God is The Man of the whole universe as far as I‘m concerned. The Great Spirit, Creative Intelligence, Spirit of the Universe, the Universal Mind, the Creator . . . all that . . . . but that’s of no consequence at this moment. I juss want to show ye something in that Cathedral that no one else hardly ever sees - not make ye a convert, Luv. Are ye game?“ He waited for an answer that didn’t come and then added, “Remember I’ve promised then to give ye something - something ye’ll enjoy very much. I promise. But ye’ll have to wait till we are there.”
“I thought you were talking about my gratuity,” she said in her normal voice, right before suddenly blurting, “Your Christian name!” It was an abrupt change in tone hat startled Ringo and he looked up from his Stifstidende. “Wot?” Ringo asked.
“What is it? Your Christian name I mean?”
“Ringo.”
“Ringo? Ringo isn’t a Christian name. Is it?”
“Well, it is me name and I believe there is a Christ . . . . so it must be a Christian name then, wouldn’t you say?”
That makes sense. I guess. Jett totaled up the check, initialed it with a flourish of her pencil and slapped it down onto the table. She turned and headed for the front door of the café. Ringo took the check and placed it into a random fold of his Stifstidende. It never saw the light of day again.
Jett could not care less. She was not about to collect a single Krone from Ringo. She had already gone back inside, marched past the rotisseries spinning a dozen or so well done hens and into the Chick Inn kitchen to announce that the services of the asshole boss were no longer required. The pronouncement was met with little resistance and seconds later her white apron was hung for the last time. Jett’s asshole boss second guessed the situation and went outside looking to make amends with her - but by the time he got there he could only stand in the Centrum center and watch Ringo and Jett from the back - already too far down the Centrum to call out to them. They trudged east through the Centrum toward Aarhus centre. Their hands were twined together locking into one ball, swinging back and forth like a child’s swing, keeping time with each deliberate step.
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The magnificent spire of the Dunkirk with its rich green patina pushed sleek and upward toward the heavens like a stiff Amalienborg Palace Guard and was just ahead when Jett looked up at it. She had seen it a million times before but seeing it this day made her neck and cheeks flush and she nearly lost her breath at the sight of it.
“Ye know Luv, that’s the biggest church spire in all of Europe - and the Cathedral itself is the longest.” Ringo proudly announced, cocking his head slightly so that he was looking directly at her as he spoke - not taking his eyes off of her face as they walked. He could see that his staring did not phase Jett in the least and she said nothing. That’s a good gerl then.
The misty drizzle was turning to a light but steady shower now. The Centrum was still busy with it’s usual pedestrian traffic - the same as it was as it was before the rain started. Walking, peddling and occasionally trotting Åarhusians all seemed oblivious to the rain - as oblivious as were Ringo and Jett. Citizens and tourists on bicycles were still on bicycles. The walkers were still walkers. Fair young blonde headed mothers with ample hips, breasts and bellies - dressed in fashionable jeans and sweaters pushed identical blue baby buggies. Tie-less working class young men and students strolled causally. Only an occasional walker had a Motorola cell-phone pushed into one side of the head.
“Would ye prefer to take a bike?” Ringo asked, as he pointed toward a collection of at least fifty city owned rentals outside of the Danske Bank. Ringo always thought it was amazing that bicycles could be so liberally shared amongst an urban population - on the honor system. The Danish sure do love their bicycles. These bikes would be trashed to rubbish inside of twenty minutes if this were London - or Liverpool.
“No let’s keep walking,” she said. “It’s not far.”
The pair slowly made their way and all they while the got closer and closer to their destination Jett kept her eyes trained on the enormous spire that was becoming bigger and bigger with each step they took. When they finally reached the city center they walked directly up to the front door of the monolithic structure. Jett paused, forcing Ringo to stop in his tracks with her.
“Wait.” she said, looking upward at the spire “I pass through here almost every day - even went to the girls school right next door for almost a year - and I don’t think it has ever looked . . . .it’s so big.”
“We’ll ye’ve probably never been this close to it before“ Ringo said. “Except for that once, with Poppo.”
Jett was instantly stunned. Poppo? She remembered telling Ringo that her father had taken her here once but could not recall having mentioned that she called him “Poppo“. Ringo knew it. “Yes I knew him.” he said solemnly.
“But how? And how do you know my nickname for him.” She was beginning to become angry - feeling somehow tricked. This “date” is beginning to smell of Gammel Ole , she thought as the resentment rose within her solar plexus and stacked itself like a childs building block on top of the earlier one that asshole boss had given her.
TWO
“Welcome to Saint Clemens - the Domkirke Cathedral.” Interrupted a bald shaven man, thirtyish, sporting a striped Freddy Krugeresque shirt that was affixed with a laminated name tag that read HI ! MY NAME IS JENS”
“Not in bad shape for a five hundred year old church, is it?” The bald guy said.
“Wot’s that?” Ringo asked back, in his melodic Liverpudlian lilt.
“Oh it’s you Mr. Tilley. Good to see you sir. Very good to see you. What brings you to Saint Clemens this time? Or should I say, what brings you to Denmark?”
“Just a little sightseeing holiday with . . .” He draped one arm over her shoulders. “my daughter.”
“Wot’s that tag ye’re wearin’ say ?” Ringo squinted to read the tag pinned to the bald guy’s shirt. “Oh I see. So ye’re callin’ yerself Jesus now? Ye’d better get back to yer old job at Salling. This this one is getting to ye ol skin.”
“No…. no . . . it says Jens.”
“Well ye’d better practice yer English penmanship then.”
Jens stretched his shirt up and looked down at look at his tag. Indeed when viewed quickly his sloppy scribbling did look something like “JESUS."
“Oh Mr. Tilley. Always the kidding one.” he said. “Look, is she . . . .is she OK? Jens bent forward to get a better look into Jett’s eyes. “She looks a bit under the weather."
He was right. Jett was not looking too well at all. Her face was still flushed pink and her chest was heaving, slowly, and her cleavage had taken on the look of a mild rash - but now her eyes were blank and had a druggy look to them. But Jen’s concern melted quickly as soon as she curled the ends of her mouth into a slight downward smile - like a pothead’s grin. Jens figured maybe she had been puffing a little cannabis or perhaps having a little residual “rollin’” leftover from last night’s Rave. He knew that look.
“Oh, I see, now. Well enjoy the tour. If there’s one thing your dad knows it’s this Cathedral - inside and out. Isn’t that Right Mr. Tilley?”
“Right. Let’s crack on then, shall we Luv?” Jett nodded. They entered and she remembered walking through the same arched doorway with her father. It was three years ago. She remembered how the heavy wooden door opened without so much as a squeak and she remembered the grey slate vestibule floor and how the air pressure around them seemed to change the moment they had stepped inside. It seemed easier to breath - as if the air flowed more freely through her nostrils - as though the stresses of the world were somehow left outside, at the front door - and she remembered how Poppo had held her cold hand inside of his on that chilly AArhus morning. His hands seemed so enormous to her and they felt so warm on top of hers - as warm as lambskin gloves. Their hands felt fused, forming a connection that surged with an exchange of warm and exquisite energy between father and daughter. She was sure this would be hers to have anytime she needed, anytime, for the rest of her life. Poppo was the center of her universe - even when his breath had soured from day old malt whisky and when momma cried in bed at night after he would disappear for days at a time. He would come home eventually and ‘e would sleep for days - but ‘e always did come back.
There was no love anymore between Poppo and mamma and if there ever was it had long been pissed on. Poppo came back for me - to be with me and to care for me. Momma had checked-out emotionally years ago - gone crazy in many ways - driven to madness through many years of living in fear. She had grown numb and had become as hard-bitten as a prisoner of war.
“You knew my father, didn‘t you?” Jett suddenly blurted.
“Oh yeah, I knew him quite well. Nice fella yer Poppo."
Jett pulled the bright yellow Scrungee out from her hair and let her long locks fall. She flipped her head and it all seemed to fall perfectly around her neck down her back and over her breasts. Ringo looked at her and suddenly she did not look fifteen anymore - or twenty. Her face bore a timeless beauty and she possessed the type of look that has confounded and excited men and boys since the beginning of time - the drugged out looking glaze of her eyes only added to the intoxicating allure.
“Walk this way.” Ringo said, pulling the weighty door halfway open - wide enough for them to slide through sideways. Jett wanted to say, I will go anywhere with you; just don’t leave me. But no sound would come out of her throat and she could only place one foot in front of the other while Ringo lead her into the Domkirke vestibule.
The Cathedral was more enormous on the inside than it was outside. Ringo and Jett crossed the stone floor of the vestibule, starting down the wide center isle in the direction of a huge alter-piece looming at the far end of the Cathedral. Before they got very far Ringo gently but abruptly pulled her to the left taking them into a more austere side-chapel containing another smaller alter - and some wooden pews. There were doors all over. Scads of them. Way too many of them. Beyond there was another secluded room. They entered the room. The room was cavernous. Jett had the look of wonderment on her face, like a tourist, as she looked all around - her eyes drinking in anything she could about her surroundings. This room had no doors except for one. It was on the far side of the room - a garishly ornate cast iron door, built into the stone floor. Even the floors have doors. Enclosing the floor-doors was a heavy wrought iron fence and gate - at least ten feet high - the kind you would expect to see surrounding one of the Danish Royal properties or maybe a private castle - but certainly not indoors. Oversized, medieval looking barrel shaped padlocks guaranteed that the curious could not get too close to the doors. It struck her odd that this huge church with all of its priceless murals and mediaeval artifacts was not enclosed by any fences yet here inside were the heaviest and ugliest metal gates she had ever seen. Whatever the reason, no unauthorized person would ever be permitted down into whatever was under the floor of the Domkirke.
“Why is this all locked up. What’s down there? Gold . . . . . diamonds. . .or some sort of dungeon or torture chamber? She asked half jokingly. After a few perfectly comfortable seconds had passed with no answer from Ringo she was the first to break the silence.
“You’re going to fuck me.”
“Nothing gets by yew Luv, does it?” he said and produced out of his pants pocket a black iron key. It slid easily and loosely into the slot on the iron lock and when he turned it there was a loud single click sound - so loud that it echoed off of the walls and made Jett flinch. She quickly looked around the see if anyone was watching them. Ringo grabbed one of two iron door handles and pulled upward. There was a long two-toned squeal as he swung the door open which repeated in reverse as he laid it back down gently onto the floor. “C’mon. . . . that’s a good gerl.” He said. “Let‘s get a crack on.” And he gestured for her to proceed down a dark stony stairwell.
Ringo fully expected her to balk and was prepared to give her a gentle push - but she obligingly went. Jett had never read any J.K. Rowling but she had seen all of the Harry Potter movies and she had read enough Stephen King. She knew well that there is never anything good at the bottom of dark stony eight hundred year old stairwells. She just could not bring this idea into her consciousness memory with enough force to snap her into common sense. All fear of the unknown had somehow been numbed and there was no second thought as to the darkness inside or to what was surely waiting for her down there.
Once to the bottom of the stairwell, they entered a carved chamber of stone and earth that looked hand hewn. “Colder than a well digger's ass." Ringo said and took her hand pulling her toward the center of the chamber. “Well, that’ll soon change.” The chamber was large - at least larger than Jett had imagined it would be as she was climbing down the shallow slate steps of the stairwell. The chamber wasn’t exactly a cave - too Hewn squared and concisely carved into the earth to be that - and it was not furnished, except for one small, plain wooden table and three equally plain chairs. There was no visible lighting or so much as a single candle, but somehow it was not at all dark. It also wasn’t light. It was sullen. It reminded Jett of when she was a little girl - twilight summer evenings when the sun would bounce from one side of the Reykjavik sky to the other like a slow motion ping pong game. It was remarkably dry - not even musty - just dark, cool and while most would probably find it creepy and uncomfortable, Jett did not. The walls were bare stone - cut solid rock - and had obviously been scrubbed clean. The only evidence of any dirt was the floor itself and even that was packed so hard that it barely rustled the slightest cloud of dust - even when Jett stumbled once as if over her own feet. “Sorry, I’m feeling a bit dizzy” she said. Ringo ignored her.
They stopped at the table in the middle of the chamber. At the center of the table was a large blue and white plate that held a long loaf of a crusty Rugbrød. The bread had been pulled apart at the center - into jagged halves. Next to the bread was a long handled knife and an uncorked wine bottle. Next to the bottle, three small short-stemmed crystal glasses. Crumbs from the rye loaf were scattered across the table top as if someone had recently eaten there. This can’t be where Tilley lives, can it? I am on a date - with an old limey who lives in a fucking church basement. Am I losing my mind?
“No one lives here Luv. It’s not me gaff. Juss me time out ken, that’s all.” Ringo seemed to be answering her thoughts. Jett did not have the slightest idea of what Ringo had just said in his Livepudlian gibberish but figured it had something to do with him not living there. “Right now this is our place. A place to celebrate our new friendship. Shall we?” She slowly eased her butt onto the hardwood chair and Ringo picked up the long handled knife and began slicing the bread into one thick chunk which he promptly ripped into two - extending one in her direction. She looked at it as he it hovered it in front of her.
“Rye. Wheat isn’t any good for ye - wot with all that gluten and starch. They say wheat causes autism. Did ye know that Luv?” Jett did not answer. He began moving the hunk of bread in small circles and triangles which Jett’s eyes followed around and around and up and down, transfixed on whatever movement It made in the air.
“Right. Anyway, ye might as well juss eat sugar lumps. Rye is good for the belly.” No response. “Diabetes runs in yer family. Did yer ol’ man ever mention that to ye?” Still no answer. “I don’t know about you, Luv but I’m so hungry I could eat a scabby headed Chinaman.”
Finally Jett reached and took it. They ate, staring into each others eyes like lovers in the booth - in the back - in the corner - in the dark of a Greenwich Village cafe. He watched her face as she chewed and swallowed. “I’d like ye to do me one favor, Luv. Don’t . . . . not until yer dying day . . . forget about me. Do ye promise?” She did not say “I promise“. Instead she tightened her brow, lightly touching the top of her left hand with her right - and once Ringo saw this he knew. It was better than any promise she could utter. Jett would not forget - not for long as she lived.
Ringo swallowed a mouthful of bread and poured a small amount of wine into the glasses - what amounted to an inch of red port in each. In the light of the chamber the wine looked dark purple - almost black. He raised his glass up to the bridge of his nose and uttered a simple toast, “To poor Poppo”. Then as if mesmerized she followed his lead by tossing her entire inch down her throat - while Ringo only kissed the rim lightly and then set his glass back upon the table - untouched.
They sat - saying nothing. Jett could feel the wine, all one inch, roll like a hot ball bearing down her throat leaving a velvety trail of warmth as it went - settling deep in her gut where it paused and glowed filling her insides with heat. In seconds it exploded violently - radiating warmth in every direction - through every vein and capillary, down into her pussy, up through her chest and then outward into each finger and down through her toes. Then it rushed from her extremities up into her face and filled the back of her head in a flourish. The very tips of hr fingers felt like sparks - her checks blushed pink. She felt her nipples swell like overripe cherries under her blouse. Jett sat, glowing, inside and out - feeling more alive than she ever remembered. Now she knew that the world was ok. That this day was ok. That Ringo was . . .ok. I’ll go back to work at the Chick Inn tomorrow and straighten everything out. I can convince him that I am sorry and that I was getting my period. I’m due anyway.
Ringo had closed his eyes and she gazed at him is silence for what seemed like hours yet was really no more than twenty minutes. He must be praying or something, it occurred to her. Again Jett was the one to break the silence, “Give me another glass of wine.” She asked, realizing her voice had quivered and that she may have sounded a bit too demanding. She was afraid he had noticed and did not want to sound needy. At the same time the mere thought of another gulp raised goose bumps like rosebuds sprouting across her back and neck. “Please.” She managed.
“Sorry Luv. That’s the lot.”
“There must be another bottle somewhere here.”
“Done and dusted, Luv.”
“How can that be?” she asked. “How?” Now there were three building blocks stacked. “This is a fucking church. Churches are always loaded with wine or blood or whatever they call it.”
“Sorry." He said, almost aloofly, feigning disinterest. But Jett wanted that wine. She wanted it more than anything she had ever wanted in her life. She almost asked again but instead reached for Ringo’s un-drunk glass and before he could possibly object, shot its contents straight back and down her craving gullet. Licking her lips she thought to ask him why he had not completed his own toast but was to too grateful to have his wine to care long enough to pose the question.
Ringo looked at the empty glass in her hand and shot a wan grin at her. “Now wot will I ever do now that ye’ve drunk all me wine as well as yers? Jett considered this and said, “Do what you have to do.”
Jett stood up with the glass still in hand and with one foot pushed her chair away. She then placed the empty glass down on the plate with the bread. Then she picked up her own empty glass, licked around the entire inside of the rim and placed it down on the plate next to Ringo’s glass. Then she picked up the knife and the bottle and gently placed all of them on the dirt floor under the table. She then faced the small wooden table and laid face down across its top stretching her arms as far as she could until her top pulled up and her bare midriff was flattened down onto the tabletop. She could feel crumbs of bread pressing into her belly. With both hands she gripped the opposite edge of the wooden table, wriggling the rubber soles of her Nikes back and forth, scuffing into the dirt - inching her feet backwards until she had no balance whatsoever and for all intent and purpose was now helpless. Ringo got up and walked around to her side of the table and stood behind her looking at her from his perspective for about four seconds before reaching around her waist and plucking the metal snap on her jeans. His teeth gritted together in a smile that could only be described as shit eating. Her jeans slid easily down past the backs of her knees.
“Wot’s this . . . . a tramp stamp?” On the small of her back, an inch from the top of her ass-crack read one word.
”GORMR”
“Gormer. Wot does it mean?” He said with a chuckle and ran his fingers over the letters - smoothing over the Scandinavian blonde peach fuzz in the small of her back “Oh I know . . . “ Open For Business, eh? I get it. Is that wot it means?” Jett was not amused by his amusement. She knew what it meant of course, or “who“ - even if she had no idea when she fort got it - just that it had been there for as long as she could remember and that Bitten, her mother refused to ever discuss it at all. “It means what it says. Just Gormr," was her reply, except now she was speaking with a heavy Scandinavian accent that was much thicker than it had been all afternoon. If Ringo noticed he was much too preoccupied to question it.
“That’s wot is says but that isn’t wot it means. I’m well versed in Danish but I don’t speak abbadabba, Luv.” Jett turned her head looking back at him sideways and said “Well then don’t speak at all. Just fuck!” He grabbed her long hair, bunching it and wrapping it around his wrist and gave a smart yank pulling her hard, back toward him. Then that is exactly what he did.
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THREE
“Holy fucking shit” Ringo said. He thought he was yelling at the top of his lungs. To his ears it sounded that way - what actually came out of his mouth was more of a gasp and a mumble at the same time as he caught his breath and reassembled himself.
Jett pulled up her panties and jeans without bothering to zip or button them and plunked her butt down on the chair that was now in the very center of the chamber. She felt Ringo’s cum running out of her - soaking through the crotch of her jeans - and she brought her knees together as if that would stop it.
“My father was a bad man.” Jett said to the chamber.
“Well, so much for cozy coital knoodling eh?” Ringo said. “It’s highly overrated anyway. Wam bam thank you . . . .” His mouth stopped opened mid-sentence and he slowly shut it. He looked over at her and considered the position she was in - the look on her face. Now she looked like the fifteen years old school girl she really was - or could have been. Is this pity I feel? He could hardly believed that it could be.
“Not at all Luv. 'e was actually quite a good man.” Ringo insisted “He juss done some things. . . a good man that done some bad stuff that 'e had no power to stop.” He stuck a pinky into his ear, twisted it and brought it out, examining under the nail for extraneous wax - which he found and immediately flicked onto the floor.
“Do ye think that I am a bad man?”
“That depends. How many children have you sired, then left abandoned and do you drink like my dad did?”
Ringo chose to ignore the first question but he answered the last. “ Yer pop didn’t drink that way because 'e wanted to, Luv . . . . 'e done it because 'e 'ad to.” That make no sense whatsoever. How could anyone have to drink?
“As to yer question, I don’t drink, Luv.” She thought about that for a moment and how he had held his glass of wine up, touched its rim to his lips and then put the glass down without drinking a drop.
“If you know so much about my father then tell me . . . why did he leave me . . . . us . . . me and my mother - and why did he drink himself to death?”
“If ye believe anything I say,” He said, putting on the best I’m so earnest face he knew how, “Then believe wot I am about to tell ye.” Ringo had no intention of giving her a full answer to the question - but just enough to satisfy her immediate curiosity. He explained in a general way what Poppo was like and what happened - of how Ringo had gotten a job in Reykjavik at the National University Hospital and met Leif Guðmundsdóttir in the elevator. Noticing the peel-and-stick tag stuck onto this shirt pocket pocket of his shirt that read” “I AM A NEW DADDY”, he had struck up a conversation with him and they wound up sharing kleinur and coffee in the hospital cafeteria. Leif was on cloud nine - this had been the happiest day of his life. He also looked a bit hung-over so Ringo had asked straight forwardly if that had been the case.
“That was very forward of you” She said.
“Can ye imagine me as being anything but forward Luv”. Her first hand experience with him today supposed not. He told her about how Leif had truly loved Bitten, Jett’s mother, and how he had vowed to give up his drunken ways when Jett was born.
“Well, why didn’t he?” “Why didn’t he just stop ?” she asked.
“Oh 'e did. Gave it up. Took a solemn vow. Even went to the Christ Church over there at the Landakot and found himself an old Irish priest, O’Leary was his name I believe. Took the Pioneer Pledge. Got his little pin and wore it proudly. For about a day and a half. “e did that for you my dear. More than anything ‘e wanted to be a good daddy.
“I don’t understand. He was a drunk right up to the day I last saw him - three years ago.”
“He gave up getting drunk, Luv - but that didn’t prevent him from doing it”.
Ringo went on to tell Jett of how Leif had gotten on his knees and prayed to whatever God there was to bring him prosperity, good health and to watch over her - “. . . ye know all that stuff that all mums and dads pray for all the time. And 'e meant it too.” he said.
“Some god he had!”
“Yer spot on!” He said. “The very next day, after our little donut and coffee date - 'e woke up in the morning 'appier than a pig in shit. “e ’eded back to the ozzy and wouldn’t ye know it - on the way there 'e stops off for a single glass of ale. Never came back out of the pub - not until the next morning. Yer mum was delirious with hurt and worry.”
“There’s something that I don’t understand. He could have had his beer and when it was finished just come visit us in the hospital. Then if he wanted to get drunk, he could have just gone back to the pub later - even if only so we wouldn’t get mad at him. That’s what I or any other sane person would have done.
“Would ye?” Ringo said and continued explaining that Leif would have done exactly that if he could have - how from that day onward until that day he died, he would never be able to have so much as one drink without immediately having more - not until he would either run out of money, time or consciousness. “Whichever was first.” Ringo chuckled as he said this. “Not after that day anyways. Before that day. But not after.”
This idea got Jett thinking. Ringo could see the wheels turning in her head. What could have been so special about that day? What could her being born possibly have to do with him drinking and not being able to stop drinking? “It’s ridiculous” she said. The thought that her birth had anything to do with it was an idea that she did not even want to consider. It defied all logic.
“It had nothing to do with ye, Luv.” Ringo saved her from thinking too hard about it. “Ye’d made him 'appier than Larry.” I will tell ye this though; ’e was sure that God had ignored his pleas and abandoned him and his family. 'e bore the disappointment of that that for twelve years until 'e finally left - too ashamed to allow yiz to see him so sick and powerless - wot 'e had become.”
“So, wot is it then . . .am I a bad man, Luv? Lets ‘ave it.” He was asking for the second time.
“I . . . . I don’t believe that you are a man.”
“Oh yer a smart one, Luv. Oh yer juss too . . . . .”
“Is all OK down there? I heard some odd noises.” It was Jens yelling down into the chamber. Ringo looked up toward the entrance to the stair way and yelled back, “Don’t go anywhere Jens. I want ye to go get yer car and bring it up to the front. Ye’ll be able to drive Jett home won’t ye. . . There’s a good skin.”
By the time Jens came back with his car Jett no longer appeared to be rolling on Ecstasy or stoned or whatever her problem had been earlier. He was glad for that. He did not want to have to administer CPR or get involved in calling the ambulance or anything that might cause a distraction for the tourists in the Cathedral. Bad for business. Earlier he had felt a twinge of attraction to her. Any man would. But that was gone now and instead he felt strangely repulsed by her. He felt his scrotum shrink to the size of a walnut while his nuts retreated at the very sight of her - “Run away!” - as if he had plunged into an icy cold lake. But that was not all he felt. He also had a strange new sense about her - as if she was somehow different - a different person. He looked at her closely. She was still Jett all right - the same hot number he thought about fucking when they first met less than an hour ago at the Domkirke entrance - but somehow she had changed and he could not put his finger on what that change was.
Jens and Jett left first while Ringo remained behind and sat quietly in meditation. Satisfied in more ways than one, plopped himself onto the chair that Jett had been sitting in. it still felt warm from her ass and he smiled thinking about that. He did not open his eyes for at least an hour. When he was done he took a good long stretch and headed for the dark stairwell and back to the upstairs world. He locked up the chamber room gates and proceeded through the Domkirke vestibule to begin the ten minute stroll through the city and to Norre Alle where he would retire for a spell in his flat below the pigeon coop on the roof. He would fall asleep contented, listening to their cooing. The pigeons were the reason he had taken the flat. He needed a place to stay when visiting Denmark and they reminded him of home.
He passed Jens, who had already returned from his mission and was in the vestibule giving a tour of the Cathedral to a single tourist - explaining the art on the walls, their significances, the history of the church - how it had burned down and been rebuilt in the year 1500. Ringo knew all of this already and he wished that his ears could close so he would not have to hear it again. But it was not what Ringo heard that jolted him - but what he overheard that set in motion a new course for him and countless others.
“Yes, I’m American. I’m in the city for a few days to speak with some folks about their alcoholism.” the tourist was saying.
“Oh are you a recovering alcoholic?” Jens asked.
“Well, I have recovered, if that’s what you mean?”
“Recovered. Yes, that’s what I meant.”
Wot? Who’s this prick? Ringo went over to introduce himself by way of pretending to ask Jens the first bogus question that came into his Scouse head.
“So wot time will ye be leaving today Jesus?” Jens shot an embarrassed scowl at Ringo.
“Oh Mr. Tilley.“
“A mad Englishman. Don‘t mind him” he whispered back to the tourist.
“Please meet Danny. He’s from the US - we were just talking about the history of the Domkirke.”
The two exchanged handshakes.
“Yeah, Danny. Me name is Ringo.” he said. “Oh, The U.S. of A., eh? Where in the U.S. are ye from?”
“I grew up in the Bronx in New York City.” Danny said.
Oh bloody ‘ell. Bronx! It’s ‘im. I know ‘im.
“And you? Obviously not a local.” Said Danny. It was a good guess.
“Right ye are. I’m from jolly ol’ England . . . .juss a Scouser from Liverpool, Toxteth, ye know. . . . here on holiday. So wot brings ye to the Land of Light . . . soccer game, Metallica rock show? I ‘erd Lars really banged ‘em up good last night.”
“Oh, no, no, no . . . .strictly a working trip I’m afraid. I’m traveling with a friend from the States - we do conferences and seminars that sort of thing.” Danny was thinking that he wished he had known there was a Metallica show in town. He might have tried to score a ticket. Instead he had collapsed into his hotel bed like a sack of potatoes, exhausted after three days of intense conference work.
“This tour of the Cathedral is about the only sightseeing I’ve been able to squeeze in. Beautiful isn’t it?”
“Oh I don’t know. It’s a little drab I think.” said Ringo.
When they parted, Ringo started the ten minute stroll to his flat. It’s ‘im . . . . I know it is. Juss what did he mean by speaking to others about “their” alcoholism. . . What do they give a tiddly toot about what he has to say about it. . .and how come he isn’t dead or drunk? Oh, of course . . . . .he’s recovered, he says. That ‘appens now and then. But Denmark is a long way from the Bronx. Could he really be this far away helping others? Shit, I was so sure that he was one that would stick.
Ringo fell asleep with these and other thought about what he perceived now as a problem while all of Terra Scania fell under the evening’s blanket at once. Jens, Ringo and Jett and Danny were are tucked into their separate beds, and separate lives on separate sides of the city of Aarhus once more.
FOUR
Store Restrup manor house was a regular site for the conferences, especially impromptu emergency Things called by Boss, as was this meeting. Ringo had left AArhus early by rail and the train pulled into JFK Station in AAlborg at precisely noon. He had folded and put aside his morning edition of the Stifstidende and decided to meditate instead - with the hopes of enlightenment and a solution to the new situation du jour - the Danny Problem. The solution that came to him was so simple.
-----------------------
“This Thing is about you Mr. Tilley. Please understand that we are not here to confront you - we are here to help you.”
“If this has anything to do with a corksucker from the Bronx . . .then I've got all yer cards marked.”
“I would not be so certain of that Mr. Tilley.” One of the eight said, a bit sardonically. Ringo was sitting at the opposite head of the conference table facing the Boss. Up and down each side of the table sat the usual eight. Ringo looked around the table and their forlorn faces staring back. They seemed more solemn than he was sure they needed to be and a desire to crack a joke - a desire he felt should be resisted - came over him. The last time he had launched a pithy remark - it was at the Thing of 1957 in Telemark, Norway - it had not fared well - not with this bunch.
“I’m afraid this alumni of yours, this cocksucker from Bronx as you so eloquently put it, (smiles around the room) has created a more serious situation than you may know.” said Boss. He then laid it on him while Ringo sat, stone faced, just listening. He explained that somehow the American had not only reversed his own alcoholism - but that this very week he had been in Denmark commencing the retransformations of four other individuals, reversing their problems as well.
“Right under our noses.” One of the others interjected.
“It’s been bad enough that sort of thing has been going on regularly for last seventy years in the U.S. - but now these Americans like this Bronx fellow are exporting this problem to northern Europe. Even Iceland has been hit hard in the last ten years.”
“This is your bailiwick Mr. Tilley.” Someone said.
“And the onus is yours as well.” Another other added. Ringo launched a disapproving glare at him, which whizzed right past his head missing the target altogether.
“Look, since I’m the one getting all the verbals. . . . may I speak now?"
“Yes of course.” Boss said.
“No argy with much of wot’s been said Boss - however, in me own defense - and I do feel like I’m on trial here . . . . .” he said, skipping enough beat to shoot a quick dramatic, looks-can-kill glance toward the other who had last spoken.
“ . . . but I must confess that I don’t understand it one bit and I recall the case quite clearly. This corksucker was about to cross the line. He was perfectly practiced and ready for the conversion - restless, irritable and discontent and clearly did not want to drink any alcohol and then HE DID! Viola! I had delivered the goods and it was a done deal. Bloody hell! He was under twenty years old - there have been almost thirty years for him to hit bottom. The effect is irreversible.
"You all know that.”
“Not in each and every case, Mr. Tilley. Not since the New World Thing of 1939. And you know that . . . . .as well as everyone here."
“What year did this occur Mr. Tilley?” Asked one of the eight.
“I believe it was nineteen hundred and seventy five or six . . . or thereabouts. And wot business is it of yers anyway - I think we are all working for the Boss here.
One of the eight leaned over to Ringo and whispered into his ear, “Do not allow it Sir Tilley. He can’t interrogate you that way. Why you’re John-Fucking-Barleycorn for heavens sake!”
Ringo bent his eyes and frowned disapprovingly - not for his colleges assessment of the situation - not for using the “H” word - but because he called him John Barleycorn. He hated that.
“Boss, all of this is juss a whole load of bullocks. That’s wot I’m hearin’ now. There’s no cause for me to be given down the banks. Dipsomania’s me specialty - just as each of you have yer own specialty. I think I know wot it is that I have to do. I also know that wot I do and ‘ow I do it is the sole business of meself and me subjects. And you Boss. Naturally.” He was pronouncing and maybe kissing some ass - just a little.
“A dipshit-maniac” is more like it.” a different other said just as the room broke out into stifled laughter. Now Ringo was more than unsettled by the situation. He was becoming livid. He did not like to be embarrassed in front of his colleagues and his face showed it.
Boss interrupted the exchange and quieted the room by standing up. His laser beam eyes were aimed in Ringo’s direction. “Well, it wasn’t a done deal, as you say.” He was being stern. “Here is this . . . what did you call him . . .a cocksucker?“
“Corksucker, Boss.” Ringo answered.
“Yes, I apologize. . . I’m afraid I’m not very well versed in Liverpudlian . . . this corksucker is on this very day, in the present, right here in Demark converting at least four others - each one of whom is your alumni - who have all decided to go his way - under his extolling. Just what is it that you intend to do about it Mr. Tilley?
“I’ll fix it.” Ringo said. “I will return back to the day ‘e crossed over and I will see wot went wrong. Whatever the reason, I will figure it out . . . . . and when I do this will be the last time any shit of this kind will EVER happen to me again. . . . . I swear it to ye Boss . . . I will go back over his entire fucking life and live with him every day if I have to - but I will figure it all out! He’ll be out on the ale again before ye know it.
“Or dead, Mr. Tilley? Boss said.
“Or brown bread.” Ringo added. Preferably both. He thought.
----------
Sukon the maid was pushing her housekeeping cart filled with towels and shampoo and tiny bars of Ivory soap down the hall and stopped in front of the VIP conference room. Before sliding her master key card though the door lock - she gave a medium rap on the door as was her habit - but there was no answer. She could have sworn that she had heard voices inside. As far as she knew there were no guest meetings scheduled for another hour and a half and she was intent upon making sure that the room was clean.
There. She heard it again. More chatter. Laughter. There was definitely a meeting already in progress.
(Knock Knock.)
“Wait! Listen. Someone’s at the door.” Boss shushed the room and all fell silent.
(Knock Knock Knock.)
“Housekeeping. Who in there?”
“Watch this” said Ringo in a murmur.
“No thank yew. . . . .. Sleeping.” He announced.
(Knock Knock.)
“Housekeeping. . . . . Hello. You need towels?” “No Towels. Need Sleepie!” Three of the eight giggled like little schoolgirls. Persistent gerl isn’t she?
(Knock Knock Knock Knock.)
“Housekeeping. Please open mister. . . . . . I call manager now . . . if you no open.”
“Please go away and let me sleep . . . . FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!”
The group broke out into raucous laughter - even louder than it had been before. This time even Boss had a muted but audible basey guffaw to contribute to the proceedings. Sukon heard all of it from outside.
“You’re no Chris Farley Mr. Tilley but you certainly are a cad, that’s for damned sure.”
“Farley was one of me best projects.” Ringo said.
“We know, Mr. Tilley. We know. But let’s not rest on our laurels, shall we.”
“If I remember correctly you had the help of our own Mr. Naag and his. . . . shall we say . . . .chemical wizardry?”
“Well that is true of course - and I shall forever be grateful to Mr. Naag.” Jules Naag was smiling and nodding in acceptance of the acknowledgement.
“But Farley became a real alkie too, did ‘e not? It wasn‘t all drugs for that boy.” Ringo said.
The room buzzed with more chuckling and chatter and they argued fondly over Farley. Was it more the drugs or was it more the booze? Wasn’t it because he was obese, or a “fat fuck” as Mr. Naag had suggested? Another brought up Farley’s fondness for prostitutes to which all heartily conceded how ridiculous that was, because no one dies from screwing or having an over-sucked dick. But nearly each of the eight somehow felt a contributor in some way - and each in their own minds claimed partial credit.
CRASH! CARANG! BLOP! It came from directly outside of the conference room door. Sukon had dropped a bucket of cleaning supplies on the floor in front of the door before hightailing down the hall toward the General Managers office, yelling in her broken English, “Come. . . . Come . . . Mister Haus . . . Mister Haus . . . . . . somebody come."
“I’m afraid you’ve frightened some of the Manor staff Mr. Tilley.” said Boss
“Always the cad, Mr. Tilley.” (laughter)
“If we could juss set aside all this arsin’ around for a moment maybe then I can have a minute to address the committee, Boss.”
“Go right ahead Mr. Tilley.” Boss said.
“I resent being called John Barleycorn.” Boss was the first to stop laughing. Then Mr. Naag. Then the rest.
“My position is quite a bit more involved that wot one would ascribe to that name - which is after all only a literary figure.”
“Oh it’s all just in fun Mr. Tilley.” One of the eight pointed out. “It’s only as nickname”
“Yes, but it is not accurate. Not in the least. I take it as an insult.”
“Very well Mr. Tilley. From this moment on you shall no longer be referred to by any member of this committee as John Barleycorn. All those is favor?"
“AYE!”
“Any opposed?“
“The motion is passed.”
With that ended another emergency Thing. Until the next time - which Ringo was hoping would not be for quite a long while.
The eight, alongside Boss got up and were mulling around giving their goodbyes to each other. Before Ringo had a chance to leave his seat to join them Jules Naag edged himself over and placed himself into the an empty chair and slid a quarter folded morning edition of The Copenhagen Post across the table under Ringo’s nose. Three quarters of the way down the page, a small headline read:
Waitress Drowns by Suicide
“Wot’s this?” Ringo asked, looking at the paper.
“I really hate to bring it up now Sir Tilley but you may as well know now before Boss discovers it. This is Jett. Daughter of Bitten. Daughter of Leif.”
“Is this right? I this my Jett?” Ringo said, as he started reading.
“No no. Not here. Read it later.” Naag said. “Boss will see you.” Naag clasped his hand over the paper and stuffed it under Ringo’s jacket as they both peered over to where Boss had been standing. He still was, and he was still busily engaged in conversation.
“Well wot does it say then. Don’t leave me in suspenders, Naag.”
“Apparently last night shortly after three AM she left her home and went down to the marina in Aarhus, stripped herself completely naked, folded her clothing and placed them neatly in a pile on the pier. She then purloined a small dory and rowed out a mile and a half offshore - at which point she tied the skiff anchor around her neck and leapt into the Kattegat Sea. It had all been witnessed by a midshipman who had been following her with his binoculars.
Fucking voyeur pervert. Ringo thought. He pulled the paper back out from under his jacket and opened it to half. There was only one photo - not of Jett but a shot of the note she had carefully placed under the pair of jeans she so neatly folded.
I hope you get this Momma. Something happened today. I did it. Something terrible. I don’t want to leave but I can’t stay like this. Someday you will find out but I just cannot bear to tell you and I also cannot bear to live with it. I love you momma. But I have to be with Poppo. I know that now.
I love you and will always be,
Your Jette
“I’ll tell ye something else, Nagg.” Ringo peered in both directions like a street scamp selling hot watches from the underside of his topcoat. “She ‘ad a tattoo on her back.” He said.
“What do you mean? What sort of tattoo” Naag asked.
“She ‘ad the name Gormr right on her back.” he waited, eyes wide, in silence to see the reaction. Jules Naags normally half-drooped eyes were now as round as Silver dollars - and just as wide too.
“Oh dear. Are you sure.”
“Of course I’m sure. I banged her for ten minutes straight staring right at it.”
Naags attention was mercifully snapped out of that thought by what he thought was a sound just outside of the conference room and he snapped his head in the direction of the door. Someone was sliding a passkey card and the door latch was opened with a loud click.
“Oh bloody ‘ell.” said Ringo. “Routine thirty nine!” He yelled.
The door burst open hitting the wall behind hard and Bent Haus the General Manager of Store Restrup ran into the room brandishing a taser gun. He stopped in his tracks and looked around the room. There was not a soul in it and there was no sound other than that of his own heart pounding in his chest and some dry wall and plaster crumble pitter pattering the carpet as it poured out of the fresh hole behind the door where until a moment ago there was only smooth wall.
Immigrant Song
We come from the land of the ice and snow,
From the midnight sun where the hot springs blow.
The hammer of the gods will drive our ships to new lands,
To fight the horde, singing and crying:
Valhalla, I am coming!
On we sweep with threshing oar,
Our only goal will be the western shore.
We come from the land of the ice and snow,
From the midnight sun where the hot springs blow.
How soft yer fields so green,
Can whisper tales of gore,
Of how we calmed the tides of war.
We are yer overlords.
On we sweep with threshing oar,
Our only goal will be the western shore.
So now ye’d better stop and rebuild all yer ruins,
For peace and trust can win the day
Despite of all yer losing.
(Page/Plant)
