DEAL
One step nearer the light and you have genius. One step nearer the dark and you have madness- “The Fall Of The House Of Usher”
Nigel woke up. Nothing unusual about that, six billion do it every day. But not everyone wakes up freezing cold on a heartless steel chair, with constricting steel binds across the limbs and (worse for Nigel) a silver skullcap over their heads. Plus he didn’t have his DKNY jacket.
Very modernist, he thought. He had been at an exclusive party (some designer was retiring, he forgot which) and he imagined he had got quite drunk on company time and money. But since he was making them more money slipping his card to prospective clients and beautiful women, he assumed his bosses would not be angry at any indiscretions.
Very modernist, he thought. He had been at an exclusive party (some designer was retiring, he forgot which) and he imagined he had got quite drunk on company time and money. But since he was making them more money slipping his card to prospective clients and beautiful women, he assumed his bosses would not be angry at any indiscretions.
With a strange noise, the binds came loose (via some kind of mechanism, not that Nigel knew, having dropped out of metalwork at school). Nigel looked down at his suit. For the cold, Kubrickan background of black mirrors, silver walls and THAT chair, his suit was bizarrely dusty. He held his hand to his head. Next time, he thought, he’d get drunk at his own house.
He looked at the various drawers in the room, numbered one to seven. He opened one that contained an instruction:
“Look at the mirror.” He looked up, and saw his own face. His attractive hazel eyes, his perfectly moisturized skin (right down to the perfect pH level of the pores to prevent acne), the designer stubble designed to hit the exact angle of the sun. And then behind him he saw his polar opposite in an Armani suit. Unlike Nigel, his suit was clean pressed but his body was withered and grey like the inhabitants of the River Styx. His eyes were red, suggesting he had been on a binge similar to Nigel’s. Nigel, not looking into his face, said, “Nice suit.”
“Emporio Armani. You seem to have a taste for luxury, Mr… Smith?”
“It’s Nigelus Glauco Andretti.”
“And your friends, and your parents, call you Nigel.” The withered man looked at him. “Very fetching for you. It seems to suit you perfectly.”
“But it’s all dirty” “You’ll learn. It’s a choice between the top and the bottom. Swings and roundabouts, Nigelus, you should know that by now. All you need to know is how many angels fit on the head of a pin.”
“Look at the mirror.” He looked up, and saw his own face. His attractive hazel eyes, his perfectly moisturized skin (right down to the perfect pH level of the pores to prevent acne), the designer stubble designed to hit the exact angle of the sun. And then behind him he saw his polar opposite in an Armani suit. Unlike Nigel, his suit was clean pressed but his body was withered and grey like the inhabitants of the River Styx. His eyes were red, suggesting he had been on a binge similar to Nigel’s. Nigel, not looking into his face, said, “Nice suit.”
“Emporio Armani. You seem to have a taste for luxury, Mr… Smith?”
“It’s Nigelus Glauco Andretti.”
“And your friends, and your parents, call you Nigel.” The withered man looked at him. “Very fetching for you. It seems to suit you perfectly.”
“But it’s all dirty” “You’ll learn. It’s a choice between the top and the bottom. Swings and roundabouts, Nigelus, you should know that by now. All you need to know is how many angels fit on the head of a pin.”
If there was one thing Nigel didn’t need, it was cryptic remarks. He looked into the next drawer. The card said “Drawer number two.”
Nigel looked in, before a vision thundered into his mind, Dolby surround style. It was his exwife Hazel, and her new boyfriend Brian. They were at it like the proverbial bunnies. Brian’s face turned into the withered old man. “Doesn’t it make you jealous, Nigel? Does…”
Nigel shoved him aside, ravaging his wife, watching himself in the mirror as he did it.
“Three out of seven?”
What did that mean? Seven colors of the rainbow, seven days of the week, seven cardinal virtues, that film with…Oh, shit. It must be a coincidence or, worse, a stitch up. He looked into drawer number four, a vision of all his coworkers laughing at him. They would pay. He was Caesar and he put his thumb down, watching as wild horses tore them apart…limb from limb.
What did that mean? Seven colors of the rainbow, seven days of the week, seven cardinal virtues, that film with…Oh, shit. It must be a coincidence or, worse, a stitch up. He looked into drawer number four, a vision of all his coworkers laughing at him. They would pay. He was Caesar and he put his thumb down, watching as wild horses tore them apart…limb from limb.
He smiled with satisfaction, only to see drawer number five spew paperwork all over the room before it started raining pens and other essential stationary. Nigel groaned as he removed several staplers and a thousand purple paperclips from his hair.
After holding his breath for two minutes, he realized that this Ben Nevis of paperwork wasn’t going away. “Fuck this, I’m not fucking doing this fucking bullshit,” he muttered to himself.
As he opened the next drawer, he smiled. He was transported to where he was comfortable, a café of beige and black leather sofas. He clicked his fingers, with every cheese and wine imaginable. He sat back, contented. The old man sat next to him, bringing a couple of espressos. “Sign here,” he said, presenting a contract,
“and you’ll run the construction of the Museum of Satanic Art. The only problem is you have to destroy a church. Then again, you’ll get 10 million pounds, as we know you have the PR skills for it. What do you say Nigel, seven for seven?”
“and you’ll run the construction of the Museum of Satanic Art. The only problem is you have to destroy a church. Then again, you’ll get 10 million pounds, as we know you have the PR skills for it. What do you say Nigel, seven for seven?”
Nigel realized this was all some tripped out illusion in his head. He ripped the contract.
“Kiss my ass. I’m not going to be taken for this stupid ride anymore. I’m sorry, I’ve done seven for seven and I ask forgiveness. That’s the deal!”
He paused. The old man turned to him
“How many angels on the head of a pin, Nigel?”
Nigel lowered his head. “Seven, one for each of the cardinal virtues”
“And how many devils are at the point?”
“Seven, one for each of the sins.”
“And what part of the pin must you always strive to touch?”
“The head, always the head. The lower point is always the most painful.”
“Here endeth the lesson. You may go.”
“Kiss my ass. I’m not going to be taken for this stupid ride anymore. I’m sorry, I’ve done seven for seven and I ask forgiveness. That’s the deal!”
He paused. The old man turned to him
“How many angels on the head of a pin, Nigel?”
Nigel lowered his head. “Seven, one for each of the cardinal virtues”
“And how many devils are at the point?”
“Seven, one for each of the sins.”
“And what part of the pin must you always strive to touch?”
“The head, always the head. The lower point is always the most painful.”
“Here endeth the lesson. You may go.”
Hazel handed Nigel his coffee. They looked out from the roof garden to the bright sunset. He saw the light cascade over the river, creating those soft ripples. He smiled. He didn’t know what he had done to deserve this, but he had figured he had been good in a previous life.
The old withered man smiled too, ripping the contract in his hand. Nigel would figure it out in time, he thought.
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