Kalhoun Prison

In the preface to bullshit, he was a nobody. It took a simple flash of magic to make them believers. Then he became a somebody. ESP was good for doing that kind of thing.

Yossarian, known on clearer days as the ruddy-haired Christoph Nicholls, boarded the ferry after Macska, known as Laszlo to a brave, exceptional few on just about any day of the year. It had taken a bit of convincing to get the boy on deck, but a promise was a promise, and it was one that was not to be broken:

“They will not take you, and they will not win.”

---

Like an Alcatraz shat out by the gates of Hell and stripped of its recreational value, Kalhoun Prison pissed on Christoph’s parade without the courtesy of calling it rain. It was a hackneyed way of expressing his contempt for the facility, really, but even the skies appeared to agree with him; thick clouds circulated above the isle on the horizon, preceding what had to be an untimely drizzle. The ferry drudged onward through the murky waters of the Gulf, adding a low rhythm to the conversations on deck that came and went, blips on a radar:

“Should I be nervous, Captain?”

“A guy like you? Shit, why even ask?”

“Even the best of us are allowed to take precautions. Already I feel auras of such magnitude that--well, I suppose we’ll see for ourselves.”

So it goes.

If it hadn’t been for the rather warm welcome that lent its ironic self to Dr. Nicholls, he might as well have been a prisoner; there was no hiding the ambiguous forces that coated the vessel, the new-age energies that permeated the waves behind them. A collar and a wine glass? Certainly an… alternate way of greeting your guests, and he sipped thoughtfully at the champagne, his brow creased as the director, a young man whom the warden must have chosen while blindfolded, fumbled to string words together. Plush booths lined the interior, one of which the four men were huddled in tightly. The space between (or lack thereof) was enough to peek the doctor’s madness on this little boat that rocked.

“There’s no other way to go about it,” he finished, the hint of his regional accent nigh undetectable. “I’ve told you once before and I shall tell you for the last time: The entanglement is not a concept that can be removed like a leash from a collar. Show me what you will, but rest assured, you can keep your dogs.” If they hadn’t grasped the first explanation, there was no hope for them now. With a wry smile, he made a subtle gesture to the device around his neck, a primitive thing that chugged out statistics like an old supercomputer. “Speaking of collars, gentlemen, you might want to seek a bit of revision in your technology. For such a nefarious organization, I am quite disappointed.”

He had kneaded his temples time and time again when the radio crackled out news of the turning point within the heart of the city. It all sounded like chaos, and not of the controlled variety. The initial downfall of the hero outfit brought him much sadness; how was he supposed to pummel them now? But then others had arrived on the scene, numbers growing, sides shifting, and Christoph had rarely been so delighted to be informed before the report was lost to the riot. It was terrible; he wouldn't have it any other way.

One of them said: “Think of yourself as an inspector, sir. We only want you to set us straight.”

“How vague! Lucky for you, I’m fond of surprises.” His tone was reminiscent of parental praise, a father who, in the end, truly couldn’t care less. “Now if you’ll excuse me, my boy is calling.”

Subtlety was never a fan of psychic deviance.

Christoph rose from his seat, sidling past the director. The larger of the other two men followed suit and revealed a small, pen-like object from his coat pocket; with it, he eased it into an indention hidden on the side of the doctor’s collar, and the device collapsed into his hand with a mechanical sigh. Suddenly it all made sense again. Free now, waves of information crashed into his mind, memories washed upon a shoreline, most of which reeked of distress, disdain, and general anti dis’ery. He steadied on his feet, closing his eyes just to brace the onslaught: There was the warden standing on the shore and awaiting their arrival; there was the shared anxiety gripping the guards before him; and there was his boy, alone by the railing, mucking about in the progressing rain, tasting salt on his tongue and forming lightshows in the palm of his hand. He dismissed himself from the group, promptly joining the wunderkind near the tip of the bow.

In the eye of the growing storm, Laszlo was Macska, if only for an instant. Strings of lightning danced across his fingertips, some of which were then shot into the air, crackling white beneath the gray of the sky. It took no more than five steps from Dr. Nicholls for the younger man to register the presence of his handler. Laszlo idled there for a moment, retracting the surge away from the clouds, and his eyes flickered through hues of blue and green before he sent a mental greeting to Christoph.

“Jó napot kívánok, uram. Hogy van?”

The doctor smiled. His calloused hand lowered the large paw of his protégé, causing energy to rush through his arm. “Always so formal, Laszlo--you sound like an instructional video. Please, let me hear your thoughts, in English this time. Don’t worry about mistakes.”

At this, the handled gradually turned to face his guide. He was fascinating, a true marvel. Reading his mind was akin to traversing an unfinished canvas--always brimming with potential, yet deceptively blank as well. The boy would never be a thinker, no; but he was something “special,” certainly. The word had usually been reserved for those uncouth pupils who’d rather shoot up than give a toss, yes, but he could make exceptions.

“The… the collar,” Laszlo forced out, motioning to emphasize the failed rhythm in his words. “I could not feel you.”

“That’s very poignant. We should have a word with them.”

In spite of himself, the boy nodded; however, his faraway gaze was a more than obvious sign that he was lost. They were stranded at sea, after all.

“When we get there,” Laszlo said, “we attack. This is right?”

“Nem. Approach with simplicity everything that happens to you. You will strike when I tell you to strike, and we will be home in time for supper.”

“No collars?”

“None at all.”

And so it goes.

God, the Lacuna must have been having a field day.

The prison’s façade was just that--prisonly with a side of imprisonment. So this was a lie; he hadn’t laid eyes on walls this towering--and gray--since the dawn of his second coming; the security measures rivaled that of concentration camps, or at least what he had read in history books; and there was a distinct, foreign vibe wafting through the ins and outs of the crevices, like the gypsy jazz being emitted from unseen speakers, and symbols carved into the stones--modern cuneiform with a touch of German. Ah, he could read slivers of philosophy in those symbols, pessimistic quotes that would make Nietzsche scowl in approval. This wasn’t nihilism speaking, however; this was Dodschun, fearless leader, whose brilliance was half-measured by the ambiguous statue that stood erected beside the gate, its facial structure washed away by time and spite. But the real spectacle, Christoph supposed, lay inside, with all the grandeur of its caged beasts and crude politics.

The warden was a stately figure whose boots were worn with streaks of conceitedness, and the self-assured handshake made the doctor blink in modest surprise. Military accolades lined his uniform like plastic letters mauling a refrigerator. His square face was dotted with landmarks: Crevices in his forehead and near his lips formed dried riverbeds that seemed to crack under pressure; it was the face of a man who could not be trusted.

Laszlo, standing firm in the muddied slope that snaked its way to the head of Kalhoun, was not far behind. His handler had been keen on the warden’s gaze, how hungry he looked, how he must have yearned for the fabled being who would, quite literally, knock them off their feet.

Dr. Nicholls nodded in greeting. “You requested our appearance, sir?”

The warden, in addition to being stately, was also quick. His steps thudded across the concrete walkway as he led them all, accompanied by the entourage from the ferry, to the gate, and his words punctuated the air without skipping a beat: “I’m guessing that assistant of mine provided you with an itinerary.”

“I suppose you could call it that, yes,” Christoph said, shrugging. “Something to do with ’ripping the inmates a new one,’ if I recall correctly. That sounds more like an abridged version than anything else. Lovely set-up you have, by the way.”

“Truth be told, doc, that’s as good as it gets.” And the warden laughed a booming laugh, a laugh that possibly opened the gate by the sheer volume of it. Practicing for his super villain audition, he was. “We’re gonna have you give us a show.”

“An exhibition, you mean?”

“Exactly. We wanna see just how strong that boy of yours can get.”

The doctor frowned, exchanging inner quips with his boy. Laszlo liked the music, he said. He liked the fiddle, even if sounded a little sad. But he did not like the warden. He did not like him at all.

He saw Laszlo trot up beside him, his eyes shifting hues as the rain, the real rain, began to pour; for a split-second, his eyes read starkly white in warning, to draw sparks from the skies, perhaps, or simply to stir a rise out of his company. Either way, his handler squeezed his arm, reassuring him that no danger was present--at least, not on their part. Beyond the gate, they were requested to halt at terminal after terminal, an airport gone awry. The corridor they had entered was swathed in shadow, illuminated only by the occasional flash of light from scanner readings. At the end of it all, Christoph heard a familiar click announcing itself and swiftly held up a hand to challenge it; in the dark, as a female guard gasped in response, the result was a resounding shatter that echoed throughout the hall, triggering a sense of paranoia that brought the area alit and voices stirred in an outcry, a sense that the doctor relished nearly as much as he feared for the majority of the same reasons he could not explain. Laszlo, stiff as a weathered oak, made no move.

On the floor lay dozens of shattered pieces. Dr. Christoph Nicholls instantly recognized the collar, its innards buzzing across the white tile until they ceased moments later. White--the color registered to him with surprise. The stark contrast of its purity against the crumbling exterior left him still, eyes widened slightly at the number of workers who had gathered about them in silence. Their faces were, appropriately enough, blank. Christoph’s hand remained in the air, trembling as a recoil to the frail energy it had taken to destroy the small machine. Ambiance from ahead filled an interval which should have been ripe with discussion: metallic clanks, cocked rifles, muffled screams.

The politeness of his tone did not fit his glare, and the pressure on his mind intensified as he said, “A request, if I may! If you so desire to reap the full benefit from our visitation, then I suggest you treat us as if your lives depended on it.” He added, after a pause and a nod to Laszlo, “I’ve kept a promise to the boy, you see. He is not fond of the hindrances your methods have taken to bring us here--and neither am I, to be frank. Please be smart, would you kindly?”

These words would not have fit for an average man. The warden tensed, knowing it to be true; as his goal was dependent of the cooperation of his subjects, what Dr. Nicholls so desired was clearly within his reach. The female guard, frozen by the sudden halt of the gears that churned her agenda, stepped away from the line of terminals, acknowledging the subtle order she had been given.

“We’ll make an exception for our guests,” said the warden, a child who couldn’t get his way. “We brought ‘em here, didn‘t we?”

So it went. The entourage picked up their feet again. When Laszlo refused to do the same, Christoph did it for him--one nudge was all it took, one telepathic wink in his direction. Plausibility notwithstanding, they ventured forth. Although Laszlo obeyed, his handler felt flares set off within them both, a feeling that nagged around his cerebrum. The boy was growing impatient.

But before they found themselves eased in a private room at the end of the hall, barred off by a steel door, it is worth mentioning the actual prison cells. No, these were not cells, the doctor noted--these were glass tubes, windows, displays one would find as one peers from the outside of a pet shelter. Most curiously, they were deceptively clean, tinted with the brightest of blue, yet the chambers were also barren aside from the souls that plodded from wall to wall. Some were restless; most were still. Occasionally those white-clad angels would appear, for better and for worse, to free them from the earth, whisking them away to areas unknown. Immense forcers worked away at the keeps, a great deal of which Christoph felt as he sat in the chair offered to him, and the entourage dispersed, leaving him, Laszlo, and the warden alone in the private room.

Oh, the mistakes of the arrogant…

The other man sat opposite Dr. Nicholls, separated by a table of unremarkable length. Between them was an ashtray, a pack of cigarettes, and a modernized gramophone, its record spinning too joyously for the situation. Laszlo stood behind his handler, his wavelengths signaling a good liking to the music that filled the air.

“What a wondrous taste in jazz you have,” Christoph started, casually helping himself to a smoke. “It seems we’re off to a nice start.”

Wheezing out a laugh, the warden leaned back in the wooden chair, propping his boots on the edge of the table. “Them ain’t my records. Can’t say I really care for that old-timey shit anymore. Nah, doc, they belong to Mr. Dodschun.”

“Then congrats to him. Would I be able to personally commend him, by any chance?”

“Now you and I both know he ain’t fond of company.”

“It was worth a shot, then.”

“Tell ya what--you and that boy put prove your worth, and you just might get to hear his voice. Get a five, ten minute call conference if you’re lucky.”

“Hold on, my friend,” Christoph said, and his voice was tinged with hostility that melted any lackadaisical small talk away. Still, he put on his best smile as he fished his pockets for a lighter. “The fact that we were even invited to this circus of the sea is a clear recommendation of our talents, is it not? Does the ringleader have his doubts?”

“I dunno, doc. Can’t say I agree with what I been told without no visual proof.”

A pause. He felt Laszlo twitch inwardly, as if threatening to strike at a moment’s notice, but he kept his ground. Just a little further. Just a little further…

“A lighter, if you’d kindly.”

Correcting his posture, the warden leaned over half of the table. Flames burned his hand in an instant, and he focused this energy into his index finger. In the dimness of the room, those facial landmarks become more prominent, a craggy batch of warning signs for the shitstorm that continued to brew. Christoph was hardly surprised.

“Well, I’ll be damned--a pyro. I figured you were something along the lines of those ranks.”

“Good senses you got there,” the warden said, lighting both of their cigarettes. “Least you’re good enough to make a prediction or two.”

His throat tightened. “That gesture was very kind of you, but pardon me when I say that I did not travel here to fuck about. What’s your true motive for my being here, eh?”

“Oh, ton of things. Wouldn’t have time to list ‘em all.”

“Fair enough--go with your worst.”

“You really wanna know? Mr. Dodschun heard lots about ya. He heard you were good. One day he sends me a note, he says to me, ‘Take a few days off.’ I go, ‘All right,’ but I know he’s thinking of something else. In you come, and then I start hearin’ rumors. Say they’re gonna replace me. Say there’s someone who can tell me how to run my job better than I do. Let me tell you that I don’t need no cocksucking foreigner and his fag ape--”

“How dare you, sir!”

By now, the warden had half-risen from his seat, the embers in his hand smoldering to life. But even as the room was painted red, a shaking Christoph did not retaliate…immediately. Like an animal, his adversary was simply modeling a territorial display; with no follow up, it would be easier to calm the beast, to ease him back into his chair. To Laszlo, however, the words were not conveyed so well--all the boy knew was action, and it was at this that his handler laid a hand on his arm once more, soothing him before all hell broke loose.

“Douse your fire. While I apologize for my outburst, this rage is uncalled for. Please, sir.”

Eventually, the warden grew calm. How he ever did was a marvel, but he was seated again within seconds, slicked hair falling across his forehead, palms charred momentarily before the flesh reappeared. The record on the gramophone sped up, launched into its crescendo, ceased.

“You’re right, doc. Let’s act like gentlemen.” He grinned a shit-eating grin.

One.

Two.

The warden struck anyway.

Yossarian had prepared for this the moment he stepped off the boat. Disgruntled, yet readied, he bolted to his feet as a fireball hurled towards him, quickly motioning with both hands in a wide, overhead arc; the projectile halted before him, solidified against the transparent barrier that had formed in the nick of time. Setting off sparks, the blaze then dissipated, leaving the warden to be driven by impulse and to attack with the same methods from before. The heat was stifling; the two chairs had caught on fire during the onslaught, and the shield would surely be shattered by another blast of fury. Here, he called out not to Laszlo, but to Macska, asserting the command by shouting his name.

“Igen, uram.”

What proceeded was a spectacle the enemy would have never fathomed: the warden struck repeatedly this time, following one shot after another, but his power was undermined by the raw strength that raced from Macska’s fist; lightning surged through the flames, puling, swelling, swallowing them whole with uncanny ferocity, blinding them all briefly before the charge found its mark. In fact, it found several others--consuming anything it its path, it tore into the warden, ripped through walls of metal and cement, crashed against sheets of glass and collided with the oblivious men that idled in the rooms adjacent. Chaos--of the controlled variety--was imminent. Amidst brightness of virtue, the wailing sirens of startled alarms, the clamor of speech and reaction and eager footsteps, Yossarian stood posed like a god wrapped in ecstasy, squinting against the aftermath of his disciple’s graceful flourish, his lame eye shut completely. Macska then triggered his anger to the door, and it flew several feet from the impact of a clear psionic blast. The corridor, once harnessed by immeasurable control from mere moments before, was alive with gunfire, scattered soldiers entwined with inmates and experiments. The prison head’s corpse lay close by, charred beyond all reason, but, had he survived, it was needless to say that his expectations would have been far surpassed. Pity how the doctor’s cigarette had met the same fate.

And so it still went.

Through all of this, Yossarian and Macska moved rapidly. No cell was left in one piece. Driven as one entity, wave after wave of electrical energy targeted guards, prisoners, mortals. They never stopped running; the doctor kept the boy within a close radius, close enough to keep a barrier projected around them both. They were earth intruders, sweeping through the ranks with frightening precision. They were karma police, bursting through the front gate to a tremendous helping of fresh air. They were minor swingers, leaping into the sky, clipping along the ocean by the powers of the mind, leaving the prison to be slaughtered by itself. They were the devils in the details, walking on water.

---

Three days passed. This was a fair amount of time to let those silly prison antics settle in the dust, yet to also stir a different kind of ruckus as well. When the hero known as Caucus concluded his speech to deafening applause, Dr. Christoph Nicholls did not follow the crowd’s lead. He stood there as he might have stood before one of his particularly mediocre students; the deep-set lines in his face only creased, long after the occasion, when he managed to smile at the irony of the scenario. His mission had not been a mission as much as it had actually been a statement. But oh, those champions--their attributes, from what the doctor could scan of them, were magnificent. A challenge would be welcomed indeed.

And then the headlines appeared, the rumors surfaced from the dregs of the sea. Dr. Nicholls would read them to Laszlo. He would read them in German and point out key words in Hungarian, if possible. He would brew cups of chai and settle comfortably in the evenings, and the deep-set lines would again crinkle from his smile, and he would then realize the greatest truth of them all: Yossarian fucking lives!

[As Black Friday]
Far below the basement levels and even the foundations of Kalhoun Prison, in little more than a hole in the rock and dirt, was where he lay. The walls had barely enough room between them for him to move, but that was the point; after all, if he started moving, he wouldn't be stopped. He couldn't be stopped.
He was Black Friday, the inhuman avatar of slaughter who had plagued whispered ale house myths for years. Inhumanly strong and with the power to manipulate probability, subduing him was next to impossible, so they buried him. They buried him as far down as they could and built a prison on his prison.

The years passed and they forgot him. He forgot himself. The rage and the slaughter and the blood. He forgot anything but his pre-emptive tomb, his mind devouring itself.

He sat up. He looked down. There was something missing, he knew it instinctively, with no evidence to support the thought. A whimper scratched at the walls of his throat, the sound of sadness twisted to an alien form by his monstrous body. He began to nurse the stump of his left arm, severed at the wrist. A dull grey tongue flicked out and lapped at the flesh as blood red tears bubbled at the corners of his eyes. He didn't understand this. And that made him angry.
He bellowed with the same fury he had felt every day for the past few years, triggered by the same stimulus. Chemicals swam in his head, focusing the flaccid tissues of his brain, giving him purpose. Crush, kill, destroy. He pressed himself to the walls, straining every muscle in his body, something would give eventually. It wouldn't be him.