"Exquisite Corpse: Get Off My Farm, Punk!” - Chapter 3 (... the genre Shakespeare refused to write.)

Quetzalcoatl

This post is Chapter 3 of the writing relay, “Exquisite Corpse: Get Off My Farm, Punk!” organized by @blockurator. The story is comprised of sequential chapters, each written by successive authors.

It should be noted that this challenge was born of deceit and deception, a duplicity of dastardly, and alliterative, proportions.

Block recently organized a similar challenge Exquisite Corpse: "A Perfect Day For A Murder" which was great fun, and so, he followed up with a second. And, of course, Murder Mystery is a well-established literary genre. Shakespeare’s works are littered with the dead and dying. So, when the call went out for writers, I responded, “I’m in.”

Contemporaneously, Block was also organizing a different writing relay, based upon the less appreciated literary genre, Farm Punk … a genre from which Shakespeare noticeably refrained.

As the deadline approached, Block was becoming desperate for participants in his Farm Punk challenge:

Before I get on with poetry, allow me to remind you that the deadline to the current #farmpunk fiction writing contest is tomorrow ...

Duly reminded, few leapt at the opportunity to sharpen their literary skills in the environs of a pumpkin patch. Not to be deterred, in Chapter 1, Block simply materialized the main character of the Exquisite Corpse Challenge, an ancient Aztec god ... on a driverless tractor in the middle of city traffic.

Bastard. And he showed utterly no remorse:

blockurator (60)

We'll see. I kind of tricked my co-conspirators here into writing farmpunk by luring them into a writing exercise called exquisite corpse.

Committed, and therefore honor-bound:

quillfire (54)

Block, I was just about to write a scathing commentary on your deception and duplicity. Your admission somehow deflated my righteous indignation and I now find myself exactly where I found myself last time [the previous Exquisite Corpse challenge] ... dealing with a lunatic in a bathroom!

Anyway ...

Merriam-Webster

Ancient Aztec Curse

Oh Ye Children of Nations, One Generation Unto the Next
Heed These Words, For I Sayeth Unto You
The Genitals of Those who Dare to Read Chapter 3
Without First Reading Chapter 1 & Chapter 2
Shall Wither and Rot

(This is what happened to the formerly well-endowed, @cryptogee, during the first Exquisite Corpse Challenge)

Chapter 3

“So, what have we got, Sammy?”

“Charcoal,” mused Fire Captain Sammy DeMoine. With a gallows-smile, he turned and stepped towards the blackened remains, now encircled by yellow crime scene ribbon. “Jack … Alice Louis. Alice … Detective Jack Hampton. He’ll be solving the mystery of your spontaneous combustion,” DeMoine proffered with a gesture towards the corpse.

NYPD Homicide Detective Jack Hampton glanced down at the thoroughly charred remains of a human being. The body, barely recognizable as such, was surrounded by a carnage of broken glass, incinerated debris and puddles of water.

“Something massively super-heated in this area … but there was no primary burn. All this,” DeMoine gestured around the blackened bathroom, “is scorch. Everything was instantly carbonized, including the body. We field-tested for accelerants. Nothing. The glass in all the mirrors exploded from heat shock, essentially sudden heat expansion. But take a look at this,” DeMoine leaned over the sink and picked up a smooth black object with a flat bottom and slightly rounded top, perhaps half the size of a penny. “That’s glass that liquefied, and then, re-solidified. In the area closest to the body, it's all over the place.”

Hampton’s eyebrows arched as he fingered the bead of glass. “A bomb?”

“If so, it was a ‘heat bomb’ made of chemicals we can’t detect and capable of ‘exploding’ without producing any outward blast force.”

“Like thermite,” Hampton opined.

“Like a huge chunk of thermite … except a huge chunk of thermite would have left behind a huge puddle of molten iron and aluminum. No puddle.”

“When you say 'super-heated,' what are we talking about?”

DeMoine shrugged. “I don’t know exactly, but Jack … we’re talking hot! Depending on the type, glass melts at 2,600 to 2,800 degrees Fahrenheit. And, as this seems more like a ‘flash of heat’ than a ‘sustained heating,’ it would take a temperature of at least double that to instantly liquefy glass. 5,000 degrees. Maybe more. And, to put that in perspective, thermite burns at 4,000 degrees.”

“Jesus, Sammy, what the Hell could have done that?” DeMoine shrugged and smiled, “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. You’re gonna need your Sherlock hat for this one.”

Hampton smiled and gave DeMoine a pat on the shoulder as he moved off to examine the rest of the bathroom. The floor, walls and ceiling displayed a color gradient radiating away from the body: Black became dark grey, and progressively faded to dirty white, as he moved away in any direction.

“Detective.” Hampton turned to face a female NYPD Sergeant. “The women’s sister and niece are in the atrium. As you can imagine, they’re pretty upset. Would you like to speak with them before we let them go?”

“Do they know anything?”

“No sir. The three were sitting in the Children’s Section, reading some children’s books. Alice,” the officer nodded at the charred corps with chagrin, “went to the bathroom. The fire alarm sounded and the library was evacuated. When the library staff made their rounds in the aftermath, the victim was the only one missing.”

Hampton nodded. “Let ‘em go. Oh, and Sergeant, do we have any witnesses?”

“Only the firefighters, who were the first to enter the bathroom once the alarms sounded. They did pass someone in the hallway on their way in. Someone in a costume, dressed up like a ‘snake covered in feathers.’ The Crime Lab guys are reviewing the video from the front entrance of the library.”

Hampton muttered, “A snake covered in feathers. Only in New York.”

In 27 years, he’d seen a lot of crime scenes, but this one took the cake. How the Hell does a woman go from reading Harry Potter one minute, to being a lump of charcoal the next? In the Ladies Room of a public library no less? Hampton bent down to pick up a bead of re-solidified glass as the movement of a small piece of whitish fluff caught his eye. He pulled a pair of tweezers from his jacket pocket, picked it up and examined it closely. It looked like … a piece of down ... like one might find inside a feathered pillow.

*****

As Quetzalcoatl approached the towering monument, he could not shake the feeling of vague familiarity. And it was growing. Although he’d never been to this place/time, something resonated as he drew nearer. He landed at the foot of the statue and looked up. Impressive craftsmanship. Again, that feeling of familiarity. Like déjà vu. But what was it?

Quetzalcoatl began walking around the base of the monument. There were hundreds of people milling about and several turned to stare as he passed. He felt himself being pulled like a magnet, like a beckoning voice was telling him to, “Come hither.” Quetzalcoatl continued with a growing sense of apprehension.

His heart stopped, as did his feet, as his gaze fell upon an elderly woman, sitting on a shaded park bench. With eyes riveted, he approached slowly. “Cihuacoatl,” he whispered.

“Hello Quetzalcoatl.”

Quetzalcoatl stood silent, his heart now hammering in his chest, gazing at his old friend and lover. “What are you doing here? And why are you in human form?

The old woman smiled. “Come Quetzalcoatl,” she said, patting the bench beside her, “we have much to discuss.” Quetzalcoatl complied, sitting down beside her. She reached over and squeezed his hand, “It is good to see you. I have missed you dearly.”

Quetzalcoatl’s mind filled with a thousand questions, each tripping over the others in a race to get out. “How long was I in the Void … and how did I get there in the first place?”

“Oh ... about 450 years.”

“450 years!” Quetzalcoatl exclaimed incredulously. “I was in a field of maize no more than a couple of hours ago!”

“Quetzalcoatl, your Father cast you into the Void and, as you know, inside it, Time has no existence.”

“Why did my Father…” Cihuacoatl cut him off, “Because he knew you would argue. He foresaw what would happen to Our People, and to us, because of the White Man's arrival. And so, he sought to save us, the gods, by casting us into the Void. He cast you first while you still had your full powers, but this caused you to be suspended the longest.

Quetzalcoatl scowled. “And you, when did you enter into and emerge from the Void?” Cihuacoatl glanced up, recollecting. “Oh, I entered about a century after you and emerged about a century before.”

“Cihuacoatl, why are you in human form?” Quetzalcoatl repeated his earlier question.” And where is your retinue?”

Cihuacoatl smiled and spoke softly. “A lot has changed Quetzalcoatl. The world is not as we knew it. The time for gods and goddesses, I fear ... is coming to an end.”

Quetzalcoatl felt rage welling up inside him. Before he could respond, Cihuacoatl continued. “When the White Man arrived, with his horses and steel weapons, he brought something else: His God. Unlike us, the White Man’s God sought dominion over the whole Earth and all its peoples.”

Quetzalcoatl interrupted, “That’s a ridiculous strategy. His Essence would be so diluted he would be all-but-powerless in any particular place.” Cihuacoatl nodded, “Perhaps, but it’s a strategy that has worked. Almost all the other gods have since de-materialized. There simply were not enough believers to sustain them.”

Cihuacoatl continued to explain what had happened since they’d last seen one another. The plague of diseases that accompanied the White Man had wiped out 90% of their people. And, the remaining 10% soon converted to the White Man’s religion, believing that this new God was more powerful than all of their own gods combined ... as evidenced by the calamity that had befallen them.

“As you know, our divinity derives from Faith: Belief in the existence of a thing that cannot be proven. When our believers’ numbers dwindled, through death and conversion, Faith in us, and the powers we derived from it, also dwindled.”

Quetzalcoatl felt the first inklings of dread beginning to form. “The others: Ometecuhtli, Tezcatlipoca, Huitzilopochtli, Xipe Totec?” As Quetzalcoatl started naming other Aztec gods, Cihuacoatl’s eyes dropped to the ground. “Tláloc, Chalchiuhtlicue, Mixcoatl?" Quetzalcoatl glared at Cihuacoatl as he spoke, as if the intensity of his inquiry would make them appear unharmed. “Coatlicue, Xochiquetzal, Mictlantecuhtli, Tonatiuh?”

“They all entered and emerged before I … and, all have since returned to the stars. Quetzalcoatl … we are the last.”

“My Father?”

"Someone had to remain behind to conduct the final casting. I was the last. I tried to convince him to let me stay in his stead. But you are your Father’s son … he would not listen either. I think ... perhaps ... he wanted me here when you emerged.”

Quetzalcoatl nodded and smiled thinly. Silence befell them as humans continued to scurry about in their midst.

“This White Man’s God … perhaps we could come to an accommodation,” Quetzalcoatl spoke in a low voice.

“No one has ever met Him, Quetzalcoatl. No one knows where to find Him. And, it’s not even certain whether He can materialize anymore. You see, many of His followers stopped believing in Him as well. And, He seems either unable, or unwilling, to demonstrate His existence to anyone, ever.”

Quetzalcoatl shook his head is dismay. "It's as if to 'kill us off' ... He's willing to 'kill Himself off' in the process." Cihuacoatl did not reply.

“Well then, there’s the answer, Cihuacoatl. I'll be happy to demonstrate my existence and we’ll soon have a multitude of believers. You’ll regain your strength and we’ll rule together.”

“Quetzalcoatl, it’s no longer that simple. Mankind has advanced. He now has tools that take pictures, even moving ones they call 'video.' Whatever miracle you performed to evidence your divinity would be seen by everyone, everywhere, within a matter of minutes. People would know you were a god. But we only derive power from those who believe 'without knowing.' Faith requires freedom, the ability to choose. And there has to be an element of doubt, of uncertainty."

A quandary.

“Quetzalcoatl come,” Cihuacoatl exclaimed, rising to her feet and extending her hand. “I want to show you something … and, we need to make you less conspicuous,” giving him a once over. The two boarded the ferry and headed back to Manhattan. Cihuacoatl regaled Quetzalcoatl with a century's worth of stories about living as a human in and around New York. It took some time for Quetzalcoatl to get over Cihuacoatl's having lived such a humble existence but her laugh, and dismissal of his sobriety, soon lightened his spirits. They disembarked at Battery Park and began strolling the streets of Lower Manhattan.

“Ah, here’s what I wanted to show you, Quetzalcoatl,” as they entered the Bowling Green Farmer’s Market. Quetzalcoatl could not help but be impressed. Row upon row of fresh fruits and vegetables, many of which he did not recognize. Meats and eggs and breads as far as the eye could see. It was a quantity and quality of produce befitting kings and queens.

Quetzalcoatl followed Cihuacoatl around like a child follows his mother … or a husband his wife … giving no argument, confident in the assurance than any such argument would only be lost. Quetzalcoatl's Father had often opined that it was but fools who believed that men ruled the world, because of their strength: The Master, was the one who held the leash. Cihuacoatl stopped and whirled around, “Close your eyes!” Quetzalcoatl began to protest such childish play but, as usual, Cihuacoatl insisted and, as usual, got her way. She took his hand and gently lead him forward. “Now open your eyes.”

Quetzalcoatl complied. Before him was a large rectangular table piled a dozen layers high … with maize. Not the maize with which he was familiar: Short, thin and multi-colored. Large, thick and yellow. Yellow like the sun. Quetzalcoatl stood silent, just staring. Cihuacoatl moved close and purred in a low voice, “They took what you gave them, your greatest gift to Our People, and, over centuries, bred the best of each harvest with the best of the next. They now call it “corn” and it is grown all over the face of the Earth. “She paused and whispered, “Good things can come from the bad.”

“They themselves have become like gods. Is that a good thing?” Quetzalcoatl turned to look at Cihuacoatl. Cihuacoatl shrugged, almost imperceptibly, but said nothing.

They left the market. The sun was setting and Cihuacoatl turned to Quetzalcoatl, “You know, you’re going to need a place to stay. I have a small, but comfortable, farm in the country. I even have a small cornfield,” she said with self-evident pride, “that will be ready to harvest within a week. You're welcome to join me.” Such humble accommodations for a goddess. The fact again stoked his anger, but her demeanor dissipated it. Quetzalcoatl nodded, “Thank you, Cihuacoatl. I am honored by your hospitality.”

“We’ll need to do something about that though,” gesturing at his form and plumage. “In the city, people dressing and acting strangely is common, if not expected. ‘New York, the city that always creeps.’ In the country, however, it will draw attention.”

Quetzalcoatl nodded and looked around at the passers-by. Cihuacoatl subtly inclined her head towards an alleyway in which a man with a strangely cropped beard, and dressed in dirty clothes, sat drinking from a bottle in a brown paper bag. Quetzalcoatl approached while Cihuacoatl fell back, awaiting at the entrance of the alleyway and furtively glancing up and down the street.

Quetzalcoatl stopped in front of the man, “Stand up and take off your garments.” 

“What?”

“Stand up and take off your garments.”

“What are you, some kind of looney?”

Quetzalcoatl back-handed the man across the mouth which sent him sprawling. The man scrambled to his feet, “Hey, motherfucker, I’m not some Farm Punk who you can just …” Quetzalcoatl back-handed him again, this time with considerably more force. Blood streamed from the man's mouth as tears began to stream from his eyes. He quickly disrobed.

Quetzalcoatl rolled up the clothes and threw them back towards the entrance of the alleyway. He turned and looked at the now naked and trembling man. “Do you believe in gods?" The man stood wide-eyed, not knowing what to say. “No god has ever done anything for me.”

“No? And what did you do for them? Did you ever make a sacrifice, the payment of a sacred price? Or did you expect to get ... while giving nothing in return?”

With that, Quetzalcoatl willed himself to fire, becoming, for a moment, like the sun. A 'Sun of God.' When the flames diminished, all that was left of the old man with the funny beard was a pile of charcoal. Quetzalcoatl willed himself to take the shape of the newly deceased. He turned and walked naked towards the pile of clothes in which, with a little help from Cihuacoatl, he managed to attire himself. “We’ll buy you some clean clothes on the way to the farm … and a razor to shave that awful beard,” Cihuacoatl stated matter-of-factly as she appraised the transformation.

Quetzalcoatl held up his human hands and turned them over, back and forth. He leaned over and looked down at the rest of his body, bemused. Human. As he felt around his new dimensions, he felt a lump in the back pocket of his pants. He dug it out and glanced quizzically at Cihuacoatl. “It’s his wallet. That's good, you’ll need some ID. Look inside. His name will become yours.”

Quetzalcoatl did as instructed and pulled out a rectangular card imprinted with what was now his face. He glanced at the name: Allen Taylor.

*****

Hampton’s cell buzzed. He glanced at the Caller ID and thumbed the Talk icon. “Sammy … you’re working late.”

“You’ll be working later,” DeMoine replied.

Hampton grimaced as he glanced at his glass of Merlot, still stirring the simmering Sun-Dried Tomato Alfredo Sauce. He glanced at a second frying pan with two browning chicken breasts, and at the pot of boiling Alfredo pasta. He peered into the dining room. Sheryl was setting the table and singing along as Billy Joel set the mood with ‘Vienna.’ She'd worn a dress that, while classy, subtly suggested intentions not in keeping with the sentiment. “What have you got Sammy?” Hampton sighed.

“Another pile of charcoal.”

Quill

You guys know the drill. Be verbose ... but articulate.

And remember ...

Go Love A Starving Poet

For God's sake ... they're starving!

@d-pend, you will note the prominence of a 'Void' in the plot ... a 'Literary Mome' in your honor.