The Invisible Hand

I. A Strange Call…

I awoke from a dreamless sleep at the helm of my command center, the beige 1898 Packard Bell telegraph machine, mid-sentence into an expose on the pedophile dungeons underneath Happy Mouse Adventure Land. The plague which had gripped the countryside for months had thankfully emptied out the miles of tunnels underneath the child-friendly facade, and I was glad to be a part of the citizen’s journalism scrutinizing blurry photographs and harassing people I suspected were mascots in the street. I had taken my injections of sanitizing agents to fend off the plague, as well as roasting my scalp underneath a sun lamp, and must’ve fallen into deep slumber. 

The local constabulary had taken to politely asking everyone to stay inside their domiciles, which I refused. I had been stricken with the plague several times before, but I will rot in a pauper’s grave before I let a medical professional, some quack, probably from the Far East, plunge some unknown liquid into my precious fluids. Only a free man injects himself with life-sustaining chemicals such as chlorine dioxide! That is a very scientific sounding word, I assured myself. 

But no matter, my head was ringing with the sudden awakening, a sour taste in my mouth, and made sure to grab a medicinal bottle of Hillock Precipitate to wash it out. After a quick sniff test to make sure it was not one meant for my waste, I rinsed out the vomit taste from the health purge. In additional to the vigorous boost of aquarium cleaners, I ingested a handful of borax to scrub out my vitals.

I saw what awoke me from my slumber, my telephone device blared with a call, cacophonous clattering. I picked up the receiver and demanded to know who it was. The connecting operator ominously stated “Unknown”. As mysterious as the dark of midnight, the knowledge of who might be calling as distant as the cold stars.

“Hello?” My breath shook like a leaf.

The voice on the other end was heavily distorted, monstrous even, spoke in a flat affect.

“We know who you are, but don’t assume you know who we are. Open your mail and you’ll find crypto mined from the black blast pits of Zerkania. Complete the task inside and you shall find all the Bit Of Coins your wallet can carry.”

Several gold coins spilled from the envelope. Enough to buy a year’s worth of fried hardtack and erotic Asiatic etchings!

A letter written in a gnarled script! With quivering fingers I continued to read. A splitting headache thrashed me from side to side as I read the missive. A wealthy landowner’s young daughter had gone missing in the Innsmouth Hills II subdivision and he was begging me to look into the matter. I began to furiously type out the most probable answer, talking to myself as I slammed the keys true; that she had been kidnapped by Mexican cartels and had to be rescued by a gruff ex-CIA operative with a heart of gold, and that the kidnapping had been mostly likely staged by the father himself to cover his gambling debts. The demonic voice on the phone reminded me that I was reciting the plot of the Tony Scott action-thriller stageplay The Man Who Was On Fire.

“We have sent you a parcel to better reveal what you are seeking…”

I opened the package to reveal a silver plate photograph. It was a blood-splattered stone seal set into the scorched earth, covered with runes and arcane languages not spoken for millennia. Hooded figures in robes stood around the seal, most likely chanting in some foreign language made up to sound scary.

“Keep digging. Find out what happened to her. Twice the amount if you find her alive. We’re just asking questions,” the grim voice said.

“How will I contact you?”

“You won’t. We’ll be watching,” the grim voice said, then disconnected.

II. Entering the Subdivision

My carriage jostled up and down as it navigated the winding labyrinthine streets of the exurban night. They twisted and turned into themselves like a knot. Fog poured in from dense thickets of trees, covered the roads like a shroud. I felt nothing but cold loneliness and I rode these streets, terribly alone, like I was the last truthseeker on Earth at the end of all time. 

Only the voice on the portable Victrola kept me awake, a wax cylinder recording about how the plague was created in a Chinese laboratory to prevent Winnie the Pooh satirical drawings from being posted on local bulletin boards, drawing their ire. I chuckled to myself, if only someone who believed in social justice, one of their editorial soldiers, could be emotionally distraught over this news! I let myself enjoy a moment of mirth in the dismal chilly air of the moonlit night. The feeling was sapped from me and replaced with an unknown dread.

We arrived at the Innsmouth Hills II subdivision. The rough iron wheels of the carriage ground to a half in center of the town square. All around was deathly quiet. My driver, a mute Albanian, pointed with a hooked finger at the local community center, a foreign-looking cafe with a mermaid logo, nautical themed after a character from Moby Dick, much like the ethnic restaurants of the day. I entered.

The people at the tables were silent, save the odd slurp of a revolting beverage of some type of whipped cream and rotten pumpkin. The townspeople were all bulbous and perfectly round, sweaty skin blotched with sunburned flesh. Their mouth were giant, distorted things eating dry biscuits called “scones”. Some sort of bizarre acoustic music was playing on the speakers, fiddles and trombones and a warbling man who sounded like a dying cat. I asked the nearest lump-shaped man what type of god-forsaken music this was. He grunted that it was the David Matthews and Company Band. It sounded vaguely European. What horror this place exuded!

I asked more of the locals where to find the girl, producing a rough sketch of her with her family when she attended her first public hanging. Few of them noticed me, staring with bulging eyes at their hands, which looked like flippers. Perhaps they had eaten too much of the soy plant and turned into homosexual amphibians? An investigation for another time. As of now, I was adrift.

“Excoose me, I’a might be able tah show you dat way!” I spun around to the sound. A swarthy Italian man with a red velvet jogging suit. He smiled, his teeth stained with wine. He was portly to be generous, greasy like a slice of dimestore pizza, with an cropped but unkept beard. A thick gold chain hung around his neck, mostly likely a symbol of his township authority.

“Yous tells me where ya need to go, and for one of them Bit of Coins, Iz can get yous there lickity split! Or my name ain’t Mario Linguini and on my mudda’s grave, god rest her soul.” He made a heretical symbol of the Lord’s Cross over his chest. I laughed. Did he not know I had moved the King James Bibles to the “Fictional & Fantastical” section of the bookshop?!

The thought of conversing with an Italian miscreant made my skin crawl. He probably ran some filthy little corner store filled with street urchins and random number gambling tickets. I could practically smell the pasta sauce on his breath, seeing the faded stains on his white undershirt. I was repulsed, but what choice did I have? I had answers to find, self-published newspaper article to publish, ad buys to field. This discovery would be my big break, this man reeking of cheap liquor and marina might be a blessing in disguise. I hired him on the spot.

III. Descent Into MADNESS

We took our leave of the cafe and went to a nearby locale called the Garden of Olives. At a quiet table, he slurped an enormous, seemingly never-ending bowl of noodles and breadsticks. Mario Linguini, inbetween endless diatribes about nearby sporting events and marital infidelities, talked about the dark history of the town. An incredible revelation! Innsmouth Hills II was built over an ancient civilization!

“You mean the graves of the original natives of the area?”

“I mean… yeahz, but where in dis country isn’t? I mean, youz could literally own people until like two decades ago. That was pretty fucked.”

“Enough of your liberalist urban-tinged propaganda, you dusky non-erudite! Continue!’

“Alright, no need tah get your dick twisted up. Jeez. So dere I was, with Tommy Two Balls and Jizzo trying to make some sponduli, ya know how it is…”

He relayed a story of him and his two degenerate associates trying to start their own crypto mine on the outskirts of town. Rumors of an underground cavern filled with treasure just begging to be mined, his eyes grew large and starry when fantasizing about the possibility. The ancient civilization was a previous subdivision of financial speculators, who attempted to build a glorious city on a hill of “McMansions” which disastrously failed during the Great Crash, which flooded the area and left all the unoccupied homes underwater. A decade later, none the wiser, they tried again, this time building the expansion of Innsmouth Hills II. 

Plague had crippled the local economy, but the fiercely independent enclave refused to obey the stay-at-home requests. Many of them carried flags with a snake demanding not to be stepped upon. They would be damned to hell if they couldn’t gulp down overpriced sugar drinks and listen to horrifying music in a chain restaurant. He offered to take me to what he called the “Wine Caves”. 

The next night we slipped about the the cave system like sneakthieves. The stars were like eyes glaring at our stealthy approach, and every tree pointed at us like accusatory schoolmasters. The cave was a gash ripped out of the earth from some angry god, and from it, rose a rank and foul odor like that of spoiled goat’s milk. Like bacteria, we infected the wound of the cave.

We descended down through the dark crevasse, ropes tied around our waists, only a single lantern to light our way. I beckoned my companion to follow, who spent most of his time smoking cheap cigarettes and asking if I knew Joey Smacks. I kept reminded him we had only met the day before.

After an hour of stumbling in the dark, I began to see a light green glow from a tunnel. The rough, unhewn rock gave way to sculptured black obsidian. Geometric shapes of rising and falling lines, images of golden wealth held by unspeakable creatures were carved all over the walls and floor. This was a temple of some ancient religion. 

I approached with caution, peering out from behind a rock. A demonic ritual was in process, a circle of hooded figures around a blazing green fire. Emerald flames licked the sides of the blaze’s metal enclosure. From behind us, pairs of gloved hands shot out from the dark and snatched the pair of us! Terribly strong grips on my delicate bird-like arms nearly broke them in twain, and we were dragged before the circle of figures. The room was unbearably hot. Terror shot through me as fresh urine soaked through my pants. I was a solid telegraph warrior, not one for fisticuffs or conversation with those of the female persuasion, I was purely out of my element. How dare they strike from the darkness!

“Who are you people?! What’s going on?! I’ll have you know this is defensive urine!” I sputtered out.

A figure in a dark mask emerged, holding their hands up high to the ceiling. 

“All hail the Cult of Wurk. All hail the Sacred Line! May it go up for eternity! The Invisible Hand guides us all!” the figure shouted. Their voice was ageless and genderless, and not in a nonbinary way, but in a creepy way. The leader gestured to the cultist holding Mario, who violently threw the Italian into the enormous fire. 

“MAMA MIA!” he screamed in bloody shrieks, “I’M A SPICY MEAT-AH-BALL NOW!” The sacrilegious oratory filling with the stench of boiling pasta sauce.

“He has been cast into the pyre for the glory of the Invisible Hand! All will be burned to uplift the Line!”

Instantly, I saw the truth. These shrouded figures had been burning townspeople for generations in worship of their disgusting god, the Invisible Hand, but then again, I found the people they were burning a despicable and surplus population. The economy was very important. 

I enjoyed the situational comedy stylings of weekly publications, inexpensive consumer goods, the sense that I was in control of my own destiny and everyone who failed was either just lazy or stupid! It made perfect sense to me! To be completely honest, wasn’t it the economic system that allowed me to purchase a fresh pair of trousers after I have so thoroughly soiled these?

My horror at what I was seeing mixed with an understanding that the stock market was a healthy part of our way of life, and the cure to the pandemic shouldn’t be worse than the disease. In a way, I had known it all along. This was not madness, it was dark enlightenment!

“Convert and denounce the false gods or burn with him!” the leader bellowed. The walls shook with the force of their cries.

“Actually, I’m far ahead of you, my good sir or madam. In fact, I have some recommendations about who you should burn next. Maybe the unhoused? The Chinese? Let’s talk benefits and salary, shall we? Hail the Invisible Hand and such!”