Waking up naked was, in and of itself, a neutral prospect. To figure out if the situation you found yourself in was good or bad, you really had to look at your surroundings.
Bedroom? Fine. Bedroom with a cute bedmate? Even better.
Applebee’s? Generally frowned upon. Kroger’s? You’re looking at a lifetime ban.
Hot tub? Depends on how you played your cards the night before.
In the middle of a congregation of masked, hooded figures peering at you tied down to a chalk circle with runes venerating a forgotten god in the light of a hundred black candles?
…Okay, admittedly, that is a valid fantasy some people might have.
For Silvio, however?
“Oh, this is gonna suck, isn’t it?”
“Hey, Big Boss Spookitude. It’s ya boy.”
WE HAVE TOLD YOU THAT IS NOT OUR NAME.
“Yeah, but the last time you tried to tell me your actual name, I vomited goldfish for half an hour. Now I can’t taste pepperoni and I break into a rash on my left ass cheek in the shape of Henry Kissinger whenever someone says, ‘Ludonarrative Dissonance.’ So, until a better sobriquet comes along or this squishy mortal can deal with your unfathomable, eldritch self, you are Big Boss Spookitude.”
OH, FOR THE LOVE OF… FINE. WE HAVE A NEW JOB FOR YOU.
“I gathered from your visit this morning. And, uh, ‘We have told you before not to bring that business up when we are in the shower.’ So, I guess we’re both violating personal boundaries.”
IT IS NOT AS IF WE HAVE NOT SEEN YOU NAKED BEFORE OR BEHELD FAR GREATER VISIONS THAT WOULD LEAVE YOUR FINITE MIND A BLASTED, HELLISH RUIN FROM WHICH YOUR SOUL WOULD NEVER ESCAPE.
“I am self-conscious about my hips. What’s the job?”
WE ARE STARVING, MORTAL. YOU ARE NOT MAKING US SEEN.
“Hey, I made pamphlets and put them in the tattoo parlor. Not my fault if, ‘Let us tell you of our unknowable cosmic horror god who lives behind the veil of space and time so that you may go mad with the realization of your insignificance in the grand play of existence,’ doesn’t really have a lot of takers.”
YOU USED COMIC SANS.
“Oh, clearly it was my choice of font that repelled people.”
WE NEED TO BE SEEN, MORTAL. WE NEED BELIEF. WE NEED WITNESSES. WE COULD DO THIS BY DESCENDING UPON YOUR WORLD, A MASS OF CHAOS INCARNATE TO INSPIRE MADNESS. WE COULD SUCK THAT INSANITY FROM THE BRAINS OF YOUR FELLOW HUMANS LIKE THE FLESH FROM A FRUIT; LEAVING ONLY SEEDS AND SHELL BEHIND. WE COULD LEAVE A WORLD POPULATED BY HOLLOW VESSELS EMPTY OF THAT WHICH ONCE GAVE THEM MEANING.
“And you don’t because..?”
HAVE YOU ANY IDEA HOW MUCH EFFORT THAT WOULD TAKE? HOW MUCH PLANNING? THE FEAST WOULD BE DELECTABLE, BUT SOONER OR LATER, WE WOULD NEED TO BESTIR OURSELVES ONCE MORE. FIND NEW WORLDS, NEW WITNESSES, ESTABLISH OURSELVES AGAIN.
“Didn’t know you could get the cosmic horror version of a carb crash.”
SMALL, FREQUENT BURSTS OF SUSTENANCE WOULD DO. BUT WE MUST BE SEEN. SPECTACLE, BLOOD, A TOUCH OF MADNESS…WERE YOU TO EMBRACE THESE THINGS…
“Alright. So, I am asking again, what’s the job?”
“Listen! I’m sorry, okay? Obviously, I made a big mistake. But hey – I didn’t take anything, right? No harm, no foul? Call the cops – I’ll take whatever punishment I deserve.”
Silvio strained against the ropes holding him in place, the rough fibers cutting into his skin. Picking a suitable house for a little breaking and entering had general guidelines it was wise to follow. When casing this place, it had seemed to tick all the boxes on his handy dandy burglar’s checklist. Fancy exterior? Check. No visible security system or floodlights? Check. High fences or hedges so neighbors wouldn’t interrupt or spot him? Check. No dogs? Check.
That all of these things might also conceal the activities of a freaky cult? Hadn’t occurred to him. Especially on a weekday morning in suburbia. No one answered his knock on the door and after a few moments of lock-picking, he came right in, blacked out, and woke up in his birthday suit smack dab in the middle of whatever this nonsense was.
“There are no mistakes,” intoned a man in a crimson mask. “We have been expecting you.”
Pale hands with long, elegant fingers emerged from the black folds of the man’s cloak, holding a deck of cards. Shifting his grip, he held the stack of them in one hand while the other plucked a single card from the top. Turning it revealed an illustration of a young man, bindle over one shoulder, dog capering about at his feet as he seemed about to walk off the edge of a cliff.
“The Fool.”
Silvio made a face. “No need to add insult to injury.”
“It means new beginnings. Opportunity. Potential. We need vitality to shift into a new age. Mankind has arrogantly convinced itself that its age of reason, of order, is unassailable – superior. But from chaos it sprang, and to chaos it shall return, guided by our hands. No more mundane drudgery. No more empty expectations forced upon us by a society that denies us our primal nature.”
The crimson-masked man folded the cards back into his cloak. As he did, Silvio watched the other members of the congregation reveal spade-shaped knives with edges that gleamed in the flickering candle light. Heart hammering, he pulled harder at his restraints, twisting to try and free himself.
“You should feel honored. Your blood will usher in a new paradise. All of this artifice will be washed away. The sky will boil, the sea will roil and offer up the gods forgotten by humanity that dwell beneath it. This farce called civilization will collapse, and the world will return to the primordial state from which it came. This lie will be exposed for what it truly is.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Silvio growled, rolling his eyes and giving his restraints another yank. “Screw you guys! Things didn’t work out the way you expected? You ended up driving a minivan and raising kids who don’t respect you instead of becoming a rock star snorting comically large piles of cocaine off a stripper’s tits? That doesn’t mean you get to fuck shit up for everyone else! You don’t get to blow up the court because you’re mad about how the game went!”
One of the figures lunged at Silvio, knife raised, only to be held back by two others. “Shut the fuck up, kid!”
“Aw, what’s the matter? Hit a little close to home? Get a hobby! This, ‘Eyes Wide Shut,’ crap doesn’t make you less boring!”
“Todd, don’t let him get under your skin,” a purple-masked woman warned.
“Christ, you would be a, ‘Todd,’ wouldn’t you?” Silvio snorted.
“Enough!” boomed the man with the crimson mask. “The hour is nigh.” He raised his knife, the others following suit. “We begin.”
While Silvio had learned it was better to use his words to get out of a fight than his fists to get through one, he’d taken his fair share of beatings in his 19 years. Calming down the bloodthirsty party, confusing them, or biding his time until some kind of backup arrived was preferable, but didn’t always work. He knew what taking a punch was like. At first, that’s what he thought they were doing; that’s how it felt. Even seeing the knives impact, watching blood gush out of him in dark bursts, it didn’t feel real. Maybe this was a dream. Maybe it was happening to someone else.
The real pain started when they stopped.
Heat throbbed through him with dull, ceaseless agony that worked itself right into his veins. He tried to fight it, to clamp down on it and staunch it somehow, but that only made it worse. Breath came in wet, burbling gasps, each inhalation more of a struggle as voices around him droned like a swarm of flies singing his dirge.
You’re going to die in the basement of some McMansion in the middle of suburbia, and your last words are going to be insulting some jack wagon named, ‘Todd.’ Good job, Sil. Real profound.
Drunkenly, his thoughts lurched to the last time he’d felt anything like this. That pain and heat wasn’t so unfamiliar. Pale shades of it radiated from the ruined artwork etched across his lacerated skin. Being stabbed with a knife wasn’t the same as being stabbed by the needles in a tattoo machine, but still. No good tightening up and flexing your muscles to fight against the pain. Fighting it just made it worse; like squeezing a garden hose and having it burst in an uncontrollable gout of water after too much pressure had built. Let it flow through you. Don’t be a container – be a conduit.
Relaxing, eyelids sinking shut, Silvio let the pain drain out of him in slow, red pulses.
Outside of a few late night, kush-fueled speculation sessions with his friends, Silvio hadn’t delved too deep into thoughts of what would happen after he died. Besides, he wasn’t even twenty yet – he thought he’d have plenty of time for that later.
Time. What a concept. Thoughts, feelings, and flesh spiraled out into insubstantiality, and he felt the basic building blocks of himself pulled apart and rearranged. Marrow and bone were re-written into poetry no human tongue could wind itself around, synapses sparking between neurons he’d mistaken for constellations before this. What the fuck was time, anyway? What did his measurements mean against it? Some futile attempt to quantify something in and of itself defiant of being quantified.
Reason.
The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters.
Was he sleeping?
He should be awake for his death, shouldn’t he?
So open your eyes, Sil.
Open all of them.
Because we want you to witness something.
Because we need to be SEEN.
And frankly, the people who wanted to use us for their own agenda are un-fucking-bearable.
Somehow they think they’d be immune. That everyone and everything else will collapse.
Idiots.
It ain’t chaos if you can contain it, kiddo.
Why not take up a baton and
do
some
conduction?
Strange. Silvio was certain the bastards stabbed him to death. But maybe he’d just been thinking about it the wrong way. They weren’t hurting him without purpose. They were showing Silvio where the lost parts of himself were. They’d done him a favor and carved out the lids that had been sealed this whole time; the ones that had kept him blind. Now they peeled back, revealing every radiant iris and pulsing pupil. He was starkly aware, with this new perspective, of the membranes surrounding and separating all of them. Skin and bone, thought and flesh. All so safe inside their own heads. Orderly. Lonely. Selfish with their walls.
With a nudge, Silvio sent them all tumbling down. There was a soft snapping noise – like the sound of water balloons being popped. The resulting aftermath was not dissimilar. They screamed then. The cacophony of a dozen separate identities losing their borders and melting together into a slurry of memory, thoughts, and sensations.
Let all become mid-ocean.
Let go of form and design. Flesh and blood and order.
Let go.
Let go.
Let go.
“Wrestling? Surely you jest, my cosmic sugar daddy.”
WHY DO YOU SAY THAT? ALSO DON’T CALL US THAT.
“Uh, you’ve seen me.”
INDEED.
“Gross.”
WHAT? WE ARE MERELY AGREEING WITH YOU.
“It was your tone. But seriously – you think I could do something like that for a living? I’d get my ass whooped.”
NOT NECESSARILY.
“And how am I gonna go through day one on the job and not end up in traction? You’ve seen the guys who do this professionally, right? I’m looking at some pictures on my phone right now and this dude’s neck’s as big around as one of my thighs.”
WE CAN BESTOW UPON YOU CERTAIN GIFTS THAT WILL ENSURE YOU DO NOT, TO BORROW A PHRASE OF YOURS, ‘BEEF IT.’
“You’re saying you could have made me swole at any point you were hanging out in here?”
NO, BUT REALITY IS MALLEABLE. WE CAN MANIPULATE THINGS ENOUGH THAT YOU SHOULD NOT SUFFER ANY PERMANENT DAMAGE.
“That fills me with confidence.”
NEED WE REMIND YOU THAT, WHILE WE ARE TOLERANT OF OUR ARRANGEMENT SO FAR, THAT CAN CHANGE? IF YOU ARE NOT WILLING TO FEED US EVEN A BORROWED MADNESS, THEN YOUR OWN COULD SUSTAIN.
“As if I don’t think about that 24/7/365. Okay, okay, fine. I’ll give it a shot. But if this doesn’t work out, no more suggestions about me risking my life for your munchies. How’d you even find out about pro wrestling, anyway?”
WHEN THERE IS A FORM OF ENTERTAINMENT THAT INVOLVES HURLING GROWN HUMANS DRESSED IN VIVIDLY COLORED SPANDEX FROM THE TOP OF A GIANT CAGE INTO A STACK OF FIERY TABLES TO THE ROARING APPROVAL OF THOUSANDS OF OTHER HUMANS FOR THE SAKE OF A SHINY BELT, IT TENDS TO ATTRACT THE ATTENTION OF BEINGS WHOSE SUSTENANCE IS INSANITY.
“That’s fair. I’ll go figure out what I need to do to make this happen.”
OUR GRATITUDE IS ETERNAL.
“My ass is eternal.”
…LUDONARRATIVE DISSONANCE.
“Oh, goddamnit, Kissinger, you itchy fuck!”
Silvio’s skin crawled as he woke.
Had he been asleep? He wasn’t sure. Maybe it would have been more accurate to say he came back to himself; finding his name and fitting his body back into it. Dazedly, he began to sit up, every fiber of him aching and protesting. His mind made a vague, lurching gesture at trying to recount what had happened, but even considering it felt like flicking water onto a blazing hot skillet – thoughts hissing, spitting, and scattering into vapor. Every instinct in him, though, was clear.
Get out.
The room tilted unsteadily around him as he attempted to get his bearings. Pushing himself up, his hands came away gritty and sticky with a substance whose origins he didn’t want to think about. He shuffled through indistinct mounds of rent fabric and broken masks littering the room, arms extended as he searched for the door. Dimly aware he was still naked, he picked up the nearest tattered garment and wrapped it around himself. It was difficult to see in the gloom – the candles that had been burning when he was brought to the basement were now little more than cold, hardened lumps of wax. Continuing his slow progress forward, his fingertips finally found the door frame.
And the wall next to it.
Wet and writhing and alive beneath his touch, his fingers grazed rubbery lips and teeth instead of concrete.
Fleshy walls convulsing, the entire room drew in a breath with its dozen mouths. Voices that had previously chanted to usher in chaos sang out revelation in a different chorus.
Heart jackrabbiting in his chest, Silvio let out a strangled sound, snatching his hand back as terror wiped every coherent thought from his brain. The next few moments were a blur of blissfully non-living beige walls, tasteful hardwood floors, and stylish, open concept design choices as he tore out of the house. He made short work of the front door, half certain he’d yanked it off the hinges in his flight. All that mattered now was putting distance between himself and whatever the Hell was in that basement. He didn’t care who saw, who followed, or if he ended up in jail. He was out, and that was all that mattered.
“Fuck this Cthulhu soccer mom bullshit. I’m done.”
That’s what he gasped, voice rattling and weak, once the adrenaline wore off and he’d collapsed, shaking, cold, and hollow at the foot of a tree in a nearby greenbelt.
Silvio hadn’t expected anyone to reply.
DONE? NOT EXACTLY.
“Seems like introductions are in order.”
The room is appointed in eclectic fashion – framed tattoo flash art crowds much of the wall space, lamps made of mosaic glass cast smears of colored light in all directions, and hanging plants stretch long, sinuous vines across the ceiling. Lounging in a high-backed chair of carved, dark wood and plum upholstery is a rangy young man with black hair, tawny olive skin, and angular facial features studded with piercings. He’s dressed in jeans, mint Converse, and a white button down with the sleeves pushed up above his elbows, revealing heavily tattooed forearms. He smiles lopsidedly while shuffling through a deck of cards, brown eyes glinting. Before him is a wooden table, its surface polished and glossy.
“Hello fans, foes, and friends. I’m your Mystifying Oracle, Silvio Leon, and it looks like we’re kicking things off here at Carnage with a three-way.” He cuts the deck a few more times before spreading the cards out in an arc along the tabletop. “At least buy a guy dinner first, huh?”
Leaning back against the chair, he raises a brow, holding out his hands to either side, palms up. “From the looks of it, we’re all pretty new to this game; writing a fresh chapter in the stories of ourselves. You gotta wonder what the genre’s gonna be this time. Comedy? Tragedy? Mystery? What roles are we going to play for each other? Villain? Hero? Partner?”
Leaning forward, Silvio draws six of the cards spread out along the table toward himself with one fingertip.
“Now I’ve done my homework for you two so far, but it never hurts to have some extra perspective. Let’s see what the cards have to say about you, Starburst. How are you feeling right now?”
Turning over the first card, an illustration is revealed of a young man dressed in white robes, holding a scroll aloft.
“The Magician,” Silvio says with a thoughtful hum. “Not surprising considering your win on Chaos. You’re feeling a sense of purpose and the willpower to get things done. After a dry streak, you finally got the sweet, sweet validation that comes through the fruits of your own self-empowerment. Now, let’s look at what you want.”
The next card depicts a skeleton arrayed in black armor astride a white horse.
“Death. Change. Now that you’ve got that win, you want to keep that streak going – you want to put those losses behind you and completely turn your trajectory here around. But…”
Flipping the next card shows a tower being blasted apart by lightning, people tumbling from it.
“You’re afraid it’s all going to fall apart. I can hardly blame you. What if the match you had with Adrienne was a fluke? One’s chance, two’s coincidence, three’s a pattern. Can you actually keep this up,” he muses, “or did you just get lucky?”
The next card reveals a man and woman standing before a pair of trees, an angel above them spreading its arms with a benevolent expression.
“You do have a significant other who’s got your back, though. A combo of love and willpower is nothing to sneeze at. Pair that up with your fear of all of this coming apart at the seams and I have no doubt you’re going to fight like Hell. And, Twinkle, you’re gonna need to because…”
The fifth card turns to reveal a child crowned in flowers riding a horse while a golden sun gazes down with a serene expression.
“…You’re running the risk of that one success going to your head. You’ve talked a big game with only one victory to back up your claim that you deserve a place among the stars. I guess the question here is, what’s going to win out? Your willpower or your hubris?”
Turning the final card, Silvio exhales, eyes narrowing in thought.
“Temperance. Well, Sparkles, I think if you come into this with a big head, you’re going to get an abject lesson in humility to balance you. If you want to avoid me or Kohaku being the ones to dole it out, I suggest you give all of this the appropriate gravity. Let’s see if you really are a star or just a one-hit wonder.”
His expression melting into a smile, he sweeps the cards back into his hands, beginning to shuffle them again.
“Now, how about our 21st Century Fox?”
Cards fanned out again, Silvio selects six new ones. The first he turns over shows an image of a woman surrounded by a wreath of leaves, staves clutched in her hands.
“The World. Right now you feel like you’re on the verge of fulfillment. Makes sense – you chased this dream across the ocean. Wanderlust or no, you wouldn’t do that if you didn’t think you could make this work.”
The second card flips over to reveal a robed, crowned man seated on a throne with a sword in one hand and a scale in the other.
“What you want is fairness. You feel you’re in the right about pursuing this, but maybe there was some naysaying before you embarked. Got somebody to prove wrong?”
The third card’s illustration depicts a woman kneeling at a river bank beneath gold and silver stars, ewers in her hands overflowing with water.
“Because there’s a nagging little doubt in your head. The Star’s all about hope, inspiration and renewal, but when it’s in this position? Maybe that fulfillment you feel so justified in pursuing as a wrestler is in danger. Whether that’s from within or without remains to be seen.”
The next card shows a robed woman seated between black and white pillars.
“The High Priestess. Intuition is going to serve you well here. Maybe you’re right and you’re just where you need to be, but you need to watch your step because…”
Turning over the next card reveals a satanic creature, wings spread, perched upon a stone pedestal to which two smaller demons are chained.
“I get the feeling you might be your own worst enemy. You’re on a high – new job, new city, fresh off a win from your debut match. Intoxicating, isn’t it? I think this card’s addressing what we saw in the Star. Is the fulfillment you’re seeking actually just indulgence? Chasing diminishing returns? Once the initial rush wears off, maybe you’ll be left empty and itching to run again.”
The last card shows an illustration of a woman robed in white, leaning over a slavering lion, gripping its jaws.
“If you want fulfillment, you’d better find the courage not to cut and run. Are you going to stick around, or go pursuing the next shiny bauble? Only so many oceans you can cross, Mr. Fox. Is this where you finally discover what you’re looking for? Let’s see if you have the strength to stay and find out.”
Gathering up the cards, Silvio looks thoughtful, hands automatically shuffling them.
“And that just leaves your humble fortune teller. Everyone has their reasons to be here. What are mine?” He looks up to meet the viewer’s gaze. “I’m here because there’s nothing else like it in the world. We get to fill the roles of gods and monsters and write modern myths out there on the canvas that people carry with them the rest of their lives. We get to tell gravity to sit down and shut up so we can slay giants. We recognize that a moment in the sun is worth a lifetime in the shade, even if we go up in flames to get it. I do it because I can. And if you could, you would too.”
Silvio draws a single card from the deck. Looking it over, he smiles.
“Fate. Success. A decisive life moment.”
He flicks the card down onto the table revealing a rune-etched circle suspended in the heavens, a sphinx perched atop it and a jackal clinging to its bottom. As the image fades to black, Silvio’s voice continues.
“The Wheel of Fortune. Lucky me.”
oracularmysteries 