by Thomas M. Earnhart
   
 
I went AWOL during the summer of last year because I couldn’t stand it anymore. The needles, the lies, the fake smiles, and that Mr. D—oh how I could write volumes about Mr. D. Unfortunately, the volumes would be incomplete. For instance, I could tell you how much of a rat bastard he was, but not his real name. I could also tell you about his devious gift of manipulation, but not where he lives. I could even describe his cunning, his treachery, his evilness, but not who he works for—not directly. Obviously he works for the government; we all did. I was in Special Ops and Mr. D—well, let’s just say we all referred to his department as Black Ops…unofficially, that is.

My feelings weren’t always so recalcitrant. I actually used to like him back when he first recruited me, and at one time I would have done almost anything for him. I remember when he came to me directly, offering what he said was “the chance of a lifetime.” He knew how to make me feel special, and he used phrases that would appeal to my patriot side, as in “prestigious…best of the best,” and an oldie but goodie, “this would be a great service to your country.” He also used the phrase “fast track” a lot, as in fast track to a promotion; fast track to all the good jobs; and fast track to the top.

Of course, there were the little oddities that in retrospect should have been warning signs. He always wore a trench coat buttoned up to the knot in his tie. I couldn’t tell you what he had on underneath, be it military clothing or civilian, but I always assumed it was civilian. And even though he should have been roasting by all accounts—wrapped up like that—he always appeared as cool as a cucumber.

Then, there was his annoying little habit of poking you in the ribs with his talon of a middle finger when he wanted to make a point—and he always wanted to make a point. After my first few meetings with him, my ribs were so tender I could barely raise my arms over my head. At the time I was worried I might not be able to pass the physical exam for the project, but (this was another little warning sign) there wasn’t a physical to pass.

Something else that annoyed me was his smile. His lips or what looked like small slits in his face would sometimes curl up at the ends with the most demonic smirk I’ve ever seen. It usually happened whenever there was news of some misfortune or accident that he could savor.

But yes, I volunteered, for love of country, for prestige, for the fast track, and it actually sounded pretty good at the time. The TSD drug was developed to give its recipient instant access to the supernatural. And give access it did. It worked wonderfully; better than anyone’s wildest dreams. This program was supposed to make all the others—remote viewing, psychic espionage, psychic attack—look like child’s play. After injection, in less than forty seconds, you would “shoot the tube” as we all called it. Then you would experience synesthesia, where you could actually see sounds and hear colors. After that your vision would distort, and then—with me at least—came the nausea. “Ralphing Ralph” is what they called me.

But there was a catch. Isn’t there always? When the dreams of success began to turn into living nightmares we found out quite by accident that the drug couldn’t be turned off completely. Then, as we rotated through the program we started to lose people. The first to go was Jimmy. During a poker game he got that thousand-mile-stare on his face, and then he went pale. (This was our first encounter of recurring episodes and before we found out about the problem of mimic molecules.) Anyway, Jimmy ran up to the roof in a crazed delirium, and before anyone could stop him, he dove off the top. Eleven stories straight down to the concrete walk. The stain from the splat is still there, and I’ll never forget that bloodcurdling scream.

The strange part was: he started the scream before he dove off the roof, and he finished it up there as well. The actual fall was eerily silent. It wasn’t until later that I figured out why: he got a visit from a shadow person. Actually, as far as I know, it was the shadow person, who also came to be known as Mr. Black.

Thank God I don’t see specters all the time! But I do see them whenever I have an episode. Most of the time they’re the garden variety—spirits that see me as their mouthpiece to the physical world. Other times, well…I think I’m getting ahead of myself.

As the rest of my group succumbed to the malevolence of the drug it appeared as if I were in line to be The Chosen One. Nothing really bad happened to me. In fact, to the contrary, it seemed as if only good things were coming my way. At first, the scientists considered my clockwork nausea to be the answer, but they began to scratch their heads when I gained ten pounds. “How could Ralphing Ralph gain ten pounds?” Then they said it was my weight gain that protected me—the mimic molecules being fat soluble and all. I’m sure if I had grown a third arm out of my forehead they would have considered that my salvation as well. However, I don’t think there was a scientific explanation at all. I think the explanation lies entirely in the supernatural. You see, I think Mr. Black took a liking to me.

The first time I saw him I was petrified beyond belief. He appeared as a dark shadow—blacker than black—in the periphery of my vision. I had just had an episode, sickness and all, and there he was. He slinked along the side wall at first, but as he realized I could see him, he stood tall and motionless in the doorway. I, on the other hand, crouched small and trembling behind my desk. In the black outline of his shadow, his face was featureless, except for beady, red glowing eyes. Strangely enough, there was the outline of a fedora on his head, and a long cloak or trench coat covering his body. Then, even though I felt utterly dreadful, he smiled at me. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it. As he smiled, he turned, and as he turned he disappeared, as if I were looking at a paper doll edge on.

That was it, a close encounter, but nothing more. If I could relate it to the physical world, it was very much like a first impression with someone you find strangely repulsive, but who obviously thinks the world of you. Someone you’d rather not have anything to do with, but you’re fairly certain they will latch onto you. And that’s just what Mr. Black did.

It didn’t take long for me to figure out his intentions. He would play tricks on people, and he always liked to include me in the show. Back when the security was doubled, and then doubled again (not necessarily for our safety, but for Mr. D) there was one new guard that obviously didn’t believe in the supernatural. He acted big and tough, so tough that we all knew what he was trying to hide. His cold hard stare belied the fact that he was really afraid of the unknown, and that drew Mr. Black to him like a bat to nightfall.

Whenever the new guard was stationed by himself, there would be poltergeist activity in the room. Lights would flash off and on, small objects would fly about, but it would always begin with a subtleness that snuck up from behind. After building in intensity to the point where the dimwit started to form some hint of recognition…bam! He would inevitably get sucker punched directly in the face with something big. One day, I saw a medium sized phone book fly across the room and smack him in the face just as his eyes bloomed in alarm. It broke his nose and knocked out two teeth. He really looked like a doofus after that.

Although only a few of these attacks happened when I was having an episode and could actually see Mr. Black perform his magic, I knew from the beginning that he was in on it. All his actions—the way he operates—reminds me of the way a cat toys with a mouse. The cat knows he’s in total control; he has that predator mindset. He can catch and eat his food immediately, or wait and play with it. All the while, watching to see what it does if it thinks it has been set free, and then in one easy pounce reclaim it. That fits Mr. Black almost exactly.

I was actually kind of sad when it came time for Doofus to take a dirt nap. That’s when I found out what Mr. Black was capable of, and as it seems, he was planning all along. You see, the more detailed part of the project involved psychic assassination. Imagine being able to off a dictator or world leader in the comfort of your own home. No special forces team, no logistics, no support team, aircraft, or amphibious assault vehicles, just a La-Z-Boy recliner and a little TSD. But the project never made that breakthrough—although I’m sure Mr. D has his suspicions now—because I ended up making that breakthrough on my own, quite by accident.

In the days and weeks prior to being found, I’d had numerous episodes with Mr. Black. So much so, that as a result I became bored with just watching him lurk in the shadows. I wanted to see his tricks again; I wanted to see his magic. In my boredom, I found out by accident that I could will him to do things: pick up a lamp, turn off a light, and even touch my hand. But let me give you a word of advice. Don’t ever let a shadow person touch you. That was the most dreadful, painful, and debilitating touch I have ever encountered. It left my hand swollen and unusable for two weeks. I still believe that’s what gave them the upper hand to find me. Two weeks is a long time to spend in one place when you’re on the run.

But, they never should have sent Doofus to bring me back. I was having an episode when he showed up at the door, and there was Mr. Black lurking in the shadows as happy as a vulture. Before Doofus knocked, I saw his image in my mind and so I knew it was him before he made his announcement. I guess I was kind of lucky to be having an episode when he showed up or things might have turned out differently. I was also lucky to know what Mr. Black could do with his touch, which made Doofus not so lucky. In the image I got in my mind, I saw his partner and each of them had a military issued sidearm. I also got the impression that Doofus intended to use his on me. That’s when I willed Mr. Black to the door. And that’s when he winked at me for the first time.

There was a blur of activity, combined with the sound of pounding on the door. The next thing I knew, Mr. Black shoved his arm through it, just under the peephole. The arm disappeared up to his shoulder. There was a scream—again it was bloodcurdling, but not quite as high pitched as Jimmy’s—and then the sound of a body clumping to the floor. Mr. Black pulled his arm back into the room as the sound of cowardly footsteps faded in the distance. He had something in his hand. It was dark and shadowy and oval. It was moving in a rhythmic contraction, and squirting dark pieces of shadow out of its severed discharge.

Mr. Black had Doofus’s ghost of a heart in his dreary hand.

After ralphing one last time, I grabbed my meager belongings and scrammed. The quitter partner was nowhere to be found, but Doofus was right where Mr. Black left him. He had that same contorted look on his face that all the rest of the group had with their dirt naps—a mixture of fear and pain. It was so recognizable; I wasn’t surprised in the least. Mr. Black had disappeared again, but he showed up later that day on the subway, smiling and winking, and even tipping his fedora at me. I must have been having a minor episode because I didn’t get sick that time, but I was pretty concerned that I’d opened the door permanently. And believe me, that’s the last thing you want to do, although I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what Mr. D wanted with his project.

I miss Jimmy. He was easy to talk to. We used to sit around a lot when the program was just getting ramped up and talk about everything under the sun. He was practical too, even when the topic of religion came up. But I have to tell you: as a rule, guys don’t talk about religion. It’s too controversial, too emotional, too faith based to have a logical debate. That didn’t apply to Jimmy, though. His catchphrase was “the devil’s in the details” and he used it a lot. But the most surprising thing for me is when he used it with religion.

Jimmy explained it like this: “You have to stick to the basics, Ralph. There is a Creator, and the goal is to make it back to Him when you die. That’s it, you can’t get anymore specific than that, because if you do, you’re going to run into trouble. As for the details, well, that’s what everybody fights over. They all call Him different names, and if you don’t believe in the same details that they believe in…they just might shoot you, just like they’re shooting at each other now. Killing, maiming, and conquering are supposedly all valid activities to perform in His name. It’s in the details. In fact, as I always like to say, the devil’s in the details…”

Jimmy had a way with words. At the time I didn’t think much about his religious revelation, I sort of shrugged it off, but after a while his catch phrase began to sink in. And, it began to make sense in other ways as well. I soon came to realize, “The devil is in the details.”

I eventually found a way to turn it on at will and have an episode. All I had to do was strain. You know, just like sitting on the pot and pushing with all your might until the veins in your neck bulge and your face turns red. Constipation, that’s how I discovered the trick. But you don’t need to be in the bathroom to do it. Just clench your fists and teeth, hold you your breath, and strain. You can do it anywhere and get a hell of a head rush. I imagine it has something to do with the mimic molecules. Maybe it pushes them into your brain, or raises your blood pressure or something. But, I’m not a scientist; all I know is it works.

I have to tell you, this little trick came in handy with all the rest of the goons they sent after me. All I had to do was strain and call up my weapon: Mr. Black. He was always more than happy to take care of the problem. But I’m not going to sugarcoat it; I had a few close calls whenever they would sneak up on me. It got to the point where I had to wake up early each morning and turn on the molecules to see if they had me in their plans for the day. (They always seemed to prefer the mornings for some reason.) That gave me a head start, and I’m sure it caused Mr. D no small amount of consternation.

You probably think I’m a natural born killer, but I’m not. I never had to kill anyone when I was in the military, even though I was trained for it. As for the goons they sent after me, I claim self defense, but I know it’s not quite that easy. I was plenty disturbed after the first few—you get hardened to it after a while—and I still don’t like it. I would prefer they stop, not necessarily for my benefit, but mostly for their safety. Oh sure, I’m tired of all the running, of constantly being in the crosshairs, but those guys didn’t do anything to me, they were just following orders. And it was that simple realization that made me decide to put an end to it.

I used my trick to locate Mr. D. I figured he was orchestrating the whole shebang, so if I take him out, then its game over. No more goons being sent to kill me and no more goons being killed. In effect, it would be a sort of humane psychic assassination, don’t you think? And what better way to take out the devil than to use a devil to kill him with? I thought it was a stunning plan, mostly because Mr. D himself couldn’t have done any better.

The fateful event turned out to be exactly a year to the day that Jimmy took a swan dive off that building. I hadn’t planned it that way, not consciously at least, but realized it not long after I used a Slim Jim on Mr. D’s car and hid in the back seat. It was the big ugly Cadillac Seville that he always drove, plum purple—I think he said—and not the solid black that you think he’d prefer. I must’ve waited for hours, and I had to suppress the urge to strain right from the beginning. Since an episode only lasts about an hour at the most, I was glad I waited. I figured I would have enough time to boot up for it because I could easily see him coming. My vantage point was a thin crack between the front seats that gave me a view of the most likely approach. Another reason I decided to wait was because Mr. Black was prone to mischief when he got bored, and I knew he would get bored rather quickly in this situation.

Just as all the doubts and second guessing converged to the point where “abort” kept flashing in my head, Mr. D showed up. He was whistling to himself, as if there wasn’t a worry in the world he needed to concern himself about. He had that trench coat on, buttoned up to the knot in his tie, and—in between whistles—that curled up demonic smirk on his lips. My hatred of all that he embodied was rekindled. And, just before I began to strain, I was astonished at how much I could detest a thing.

I strained as hard as I could and heard the car door unlock. I opened my eyes and searched frantically for Mr. Black, looking in all the shadows for his form, a movement, anything. Then Mr. D slid his carcass into the driver’s seat. He fumbled with his keys and I strained a little harder, this time with my eyes open. The heat was building and I was afraid one of the arteries in my neck would burst, sending a shower of blood, like a wayward garden hose, to coat and redecorate the inside of his white interior with plum matching red. But, I must’ve grunted or something because he simply turned around and said, “Hello, Ralph. I’ve been expecting you.”

I was shocked and horrified to be discovered so quickly. It was almost as if he knew I was coming.

“We’ve missed you down at the project,” he said, as he repositioned the rearview mirror to gaze at my bloodshot eyes. “In fact, the project was almost cancelled, but I’ve managed to keep it alive—just barely.”

“Don’t try anything,” I said. “I’ve got a gun.” It was a lie, but since Mr. Black hadn’t shown up yet, I needed to buy some time.

“Now Ralph, why would someone as talented as you need a gun? I sent—what?—a dozen, maybe two dozen hired killers to retrieve you, and they all come back dead. You’ll have to forgive me on not remembering the count, but I wasn’t concerned so much about the number as I was about what caused their deaths. You see, each and every one of their hearts were shriveled up and turned black, just like they’d been burned from the inside by some supernatural force. It was quite exhilarating to say the least.”

“You sent them expressly to test my powers,” I said. “I had to defend myself; you knew that…so, in reality, you’re the murderer, not me.”

Mr. D laughed, and I saw that talon of a middle finger move up to poke at an imaginary rib cage. I clutched my own chest and decided I had to strain again, one last time. If Mr. Black failed to show up this time, my soul was as good as gone.

“Ralph, I have to take responsibility for your shortcomings, but not the murders, those were your doings. My failure was that I believed you could be molded and changed regardless of what your profile suggested. You know, you never should have been accepted in Special Ops; you don’t have the stomach for it.” He grinned again with those curled up lips.

“I’ll show you what I have the stomach for,” I grunted. But while my veins were bulging and my eyes were getting ever more bloodshot, he kept talking and distracting me. The extreme headache I had wasn’t helping much either.

“How do you do it, Ralph? You can obviously turn it on and off. How do you force the mimic molecules to function? How do you force them to function at will?” He chuckled and curled his lips into a smirk. “You’ve got all our best scientists wondering…and you wouldn’t want to leave them up in the air about it, now would you?”

I gave the strain my last ditch effort and opened my hopeful eyes. To my relief, Mr. Black appeared on the hood of the car sitting cross legged and unmoving. His red glowing eyes were as big as ever, and under his fedora I saw him wink. I knew he was smiling.

“It’s about time,” I whispered, taking a quick glance at Mr. D. When I looked back, Mr. Black was already up on his knees, crawling toward the windshield, and without me consciously willing his movements.
I slid back in the seat and off to one side so I could watch the show and it struck me that I’d never been this close when Mr. Black was “taking care of business.” As he reached through the windshield I felt the usual dread of his presence, and he silently slithered into the front seat just inches away from Mr. D.
My heart quickened, and I noticed for the first time since I met him that Mr. D was sweating. The top of his collar had a sweat stain crawling down his neck and blotting the top of his trench coat. I actually felt a brief hint of sorrow for the poor sap, being so close to his dirt nap and all, but I shrugged it off and smiled at what was going to be a truly good show.

That’s when Mr. Black turned and reached over toward Mr. D’s chest. I held my breath, waiting for the ghost of a heart to be ripped out, spurting its shadowy life force and taking its last rhythmic beat, but that’s not what happened. Instead, Mr. Black continued to advance, getting closer and closer until he was sitting directly on top of Mr. D. Then without a sound, he sort of melted into Mr. D’s body, leg for leg and arm for arm, and finally—with red eyes glowing—head for head. Mr. D sort of puffed up, but continued to sit behind the wheel, stiff and unmoving. There was no sign of Mr. Black after that…until Mr. D rotated his head and stared at me in the back seat. His face was recognizable enough with his curled-lip smirk, but that quickly changed to a demonic smile that was the epitome of evil.

Then he blinked his eyes, and when he did they flashed with a glowing red color.

When I saw that, a shudder emanated from the back of my skull and traveled all the way to the base of my spine. I didn’t know what to think. Was this an entirely new way for Mr. Black to kill? Or had he changed his allegiance to someone else? I froze with fear and could only watch as he slowly stuck out that talon of a middle finger and thrust it at my chest. At that moment, I knew he intended to take my heart; I knew he wanted to end my life; and I knew he wanted my very soul.

I shuffled back in my seat and felt a wave of nausea flash over me. Not now, I thought. I don’t want to be sick when I might have to fight for my very life. While Mr. D turned and crawled up between the seats and his smile took on a venomous appearance, my mouth began to fill with stale saliva. Then he opened his own gaping mouth to show what I thought were spiked teeth. My eyes were tearing, and I could have sworn I smelled sulfur on his breath. Just as he was about to pounce, I got sick. And this wasn’t your average, everyday kind of sick; it was the most sick I’ve ever been, and easily the most sick I’ve ever seen anyone get. (Even the Linda Blair, spin your head around while spewing green pea soup in The Exorcist doesn’t do this sick justice.) I, Ralphing Ralph, let the flood gates open. It was the projectile kind, it was voluminous, and it happened so much and so fast it was coming out of my nose. In between retching, and through the multiple views of watery eyes, I noticed that Mr. D was covered with it and had pulled back. Then as I wiped my face, I saw Mr. Black pullout, reappearing briefly, only to quickly slink away in disgust. That’s when I discovered even the devil himself doesn’t like to be soiled.

As the cascade receded and I was able to breathe once again, I took the opportunity to exit the maelstrom and save my own hide. Believe me, there was no one else in the world more grateful than I at that particular moment in time. And I was a sight to see: a pale white guy, who spent way too much time hiding indoors, covered from head to toe with puke, and staggering with some kind of drug induced stupor—it was a wonder I didn’t get picked up by the cops.
But in all honesty, it’s the gravity of the situation that compels me to warn you of this latest development, because I’m pretty sure Mr. D is still out there, and I know for certain Mr. Black is still lurking about in the dark corners and the shadows…unseen. At this point I don’t care so much for my own safety…but if you find yourself feeling an overwhelming emotion of dread, and you feel a pain in your chest accompanied by a sudden tug at your heart, your best bet is to immediately stick your finger down your throat. If the situation happens to be not so dire, you’ll simply get sick…but if it’s the worst case scenario I warned you about, then I just saved your life and you’ll want to get the hell out of there. Whatever the situation, just remember a certain catch phrase from a good friend of mine. It’s a mantra that you might want to use to protect yourself with in the near future, but hopefully you’ll have more time than that. In
 any event, I don’t want you to ever forget: “the devil’s in the details.”