Part IV � Fantasy Man

Crash wished he had never opened his big, stupid mouth. He wished he hadn�t muddied everything up as he had. He wished everyone would forget what happened and everything could go back to the way it was before.

But first and foremost, at that moment, he wished he were more certain that the roof was going to hold.

It had always held in the past. Sometimes if it had rained recently, it would sag a bit, but even then, it would hold. This was one of the better constructed buildings in the area, and was strong enough for the roof not to break under the combined weight of Crash and his lady friend Egriga. They had been up here on many occasions, and the roof had never failed them.

But this firm precedent failed to satisfy Crash now. Nothing else in his life that he had always considered genuine was escaping his recent skepticism, so why should the roof? He didn�t have the mental faculties to waste on the roof, though, so he simply lay naked staring up at the dim stars through clouds of smog, passively aware that any moment, the roof might collapse under him.

His friends had stopped speaking to him. He wasn�t welcome in the bars and taverns anymore. He lost his job. Why shouldn�t the roof collapse too?

�I had your child a few weeks back. He�s doing well,� Egriga said. Crash gave an acknowledging grunt, it was the greatest degree of interest he could feign. He looked over to her, laying there, watching him with unblinking eyes. She propped herself up by her elbow; all of her limbs were gaunt and slightly irregular in shape, though not in any way that impeded function. She wore only her wool shirt; her thick pants bunched up nearby. She seemed expectant, though Crash didn�t know for what. They had already done what they came up here to do, he thought.

I should show her more consideration, I suppose. After all, she�s the only one who�s still willing to keep me company. And besides, she�s probably the only one that I don�t feel like telling off.

At first, Crash thought that people were avoiding him because it had finally been revealed to them, and to he as well, equally oblivious, he was a thinker. But that didn�t make sense, after all, they didn�t hate other thinkers. So he thought that perhaps it was because he had tried to kill a thinker. That would explain why the thinkers avoided him as much as the doers, but it still didn�t make sense. Eventually, he understood the reason.

All his life, Crash had been perfect. He was precisely what everyone needed. He was strong and tireless in his work. He would move and haul and never complain. He was simultaneously generous and selfish, epitomized by the times when he was beseeched for help by a group of poor starving people, and proceeded to wander into a bar, kill someone, and feed the body to the poor. Selfishly taking life to generously feed others. Everyone loved him, it was no wonder he had survived as long as he had.

But the more he tried to help, the more he realized how everything was beyond help. Dragontown was like a man without hands or an animal without fangs. Conceivably, these things could survive, perhaps even with some sort of happiness, but they could never escape that things were not as they should be. The more Crash came to understand this, the more he saw the horror in the place, the more he hated it.

And finally, in the bar, with the strange thinker, he told them so. He told all those who loved and admired him for fulfilling all of their fantasies that he was not the man they thought he was, that he hated everything that they were, that he did not want to be what he was. That he did not want to be what they loved.

They stopped loving him, then. Everyone except Egriga.

He realized that they weren�t alone. There was a man sitting across the roof, painting their portrait. When the man realized he was discovered, he turned the paper around to show them an image that was little more than two colors swirling about, one pushing into the other in a way that served to join them together.

�Portrait,� Crash inwardly scoffed. They really weren�t portraits at all. If any such thing, they were closer to a caricature, a visual parody of reality. When they resembled their subjects at all, whatever seemed important to the painter would be exaggerated and accentuated such that the resemblance would be slight and vague. More often, it would then be distorted by abstraction to such a point as it was utterly unrecognizable.

The man, seemingly satisfied, stood and left, and Crash looked back to his companion.

�Why are you here, Egriga?� he asked her.

�Why wouldn�t I be? This is where we always come.�

Typical of the people here, ignore the problem. He inwardly sighed and gave her a long, probing look until she spoke again.

�I miss you, Crash, the way you used to be. We used to come up here every night, don�t you remember?� There was an odd tone to her voice that he couldn�t identify.

�Yes, I remember, I�m sorry it�s been so long, but you must understand that I have fallen on hard times.� He realized what her tone was when he found himself speaking in the same way. Both were speaking as if they were talking to someone mentally deranged.

�It�s your own doing,� she said.

�What do you suggest I do?�

�Come back to us. You�re a thinker, but we won�t resent you for that if only you wouldn�t resent us.� She seemed near tears.

�Don�t you see that there are problems that are not my fault?� Crash asked her. A confused look was her only response. She really didn�t. Or at least she didn�t see that they should affect the way you live your life.

�If only you would just come back,� she said.

�What you mean to say is, if only I would just be what everyone wants me to be. I�m sorry, Egriga, but I am what I am, I�m not your Fantasy Man.�

She was taken aback, and for a time, neither of them spoke. Crash stood and paced about. Egriga pulled her pants and boots on. When she returned her attention to him, he was standing at the edge of the roof, staring into the mountains in the East.

�What are you looking at?� she asked him. He didn�t answer her question, but rather asked one of his own. Maybe he was only asking himself, but she didn�t take it that way.

�Why don�t we just go into the mountains?�

She was too shocked to say anything.

�Crash, this is what I�m talking about. You spend all your time saying crazy things. No one wants to be around a raving lunatic. You have to stop it.�

�I�m serious!� he shouted, turning back to her. �The Ministry tells us that Paradise is in the East, past the mountains. Why doesn�t the whole town just pack up and go?�

There wasn�t even a heartbeat before she began, �You�re just-�

�Stop!� he yelled, �please just don�t answer right away. Think, tell me.� She surprised him by taking a few moments. Is she really doing it? She dashed his hopes quickly enough.

�Because we are a sinful and corrupt people,� she said.

�A sinful and corrupt people cannot walk and carry luggage?� Crash asked.

�We don�t deserve paradise. The guardians are there to stop us, that proves it,� she said with confidence that her robotic words would defeat the thinker.

�Yes. So then, the Guardians would step aside to allow a virtuous people through?�

�Well�� Egriga tried to have it make sense for her. It had all made perfect sense before Crash started questioning it.

�Even assuming that that made any sense whatsoever, that vicious predatory animals would have any concern for our morality, what is the Ministry doing about it?�

�The Ministry is trying to help us by taking all the good weapons away, by instructing us in virtue. Eventually, we�ll be ready, and then��

�And then�� Crash said. He gasped as his head reeled with understanding.

�What?� Egriga asked him. He looked at her, at the expression on her face. He must have looked very strange for a moment. He hesitated to speak his realization, as he had likely hurt her enough, but he couldn�t stop himself.

�You�re right, the Ministry is conditioning us. They�re making us into two things, violent, and controllable. They control the conditions here, they want us to be as wicked as we are, as murderous and angry. And then, of course, their word is law to us. Oh� Don�t you see it?�

�What?�

�Egriga� I understand now. There will come a day when they decide that we are vicious enough, and that we are submissive enough, and then I believe they�ll give those weapons back.�

�Why would they do that?�

�Because virtue won�t get us past the Guardians, but swords and spears will. Oh� They think that they can force our way into paradise! It�s fucking insane!�

Egriga wouldn�t tolerate this anymore.

�You�re right, Crash, what you�re saying is fucking insane, but no one has thought of it but you! You�re crazy!�

He looked at her with pleading eyes as beads of sweat rolled down his face. He saw a look on her face that he had never seen before. That is to say, he had never seen it on her. He had seen it on everyone else. What else could he expect? He had told her that he was not her Fantasy Man. Only now she understood it, now she knew it.

There was rage in her face; hate. And the hate she felt for him made him hate himself. She had her hand on a little jagged blade she kept. He could hardly believe it until he realized that she was only responding to him. That wicked blade of his was in his hand. Why am I holding this? I wouldn�t kill her, would I? No, this is for someone else.

�Egriga� I�m so sorry�� He took a deep breath as if mustering the courage to fight a Guardian. �Don�t worry. I just need to do something� and then I�m coming back.�

Crash stormed off of the roof, down the stairs, out onto the street. He knew where he was going, knew it perfectly. He had followed the strange thinker there that night. The thinker hardly left after that. He would be there. Crash would find him.

Maybe it was the knife in his hand, maybe it was the way he walked, or maybe it was his muscle, but no one stood in his way. With every step, his heart beat harder. He was going to end it. He was going to destroy the source of all the horror he had been immersed in. He was going to stop the insanity and go back to living with Egriga, with the rest of them.

He would be their Fantasy Man, he didn�t care. All it would take was one stroke of the knife. But he would do it more than once, he would do it a dozen times just to be sure. He smiled sickly imagining each one shearing flesh and scraping bone and spilling blood. He would do it right this time, he would finish it, and everything would go back to normal.

He never slowed as the Monastery grew before him, towering above every other building. He raged over the street gripping the knife so hard he was almost breaking the hilt. Pure lethal intent pushed him. He could feel each coming step before he took it. He imagined crashing through the doors, thundering down the hallways, searching every room until he found his target. And then, the knife would do its work.

It didn�t happen that way at all.

Before Crash could throw the doors open, the strange man opened the door and stepped outside. In an instant, the murder flashed through his mind. Spraying blood and sweet screams of death.

It didn�t happen that way at all.

Crash simply stood, knife in hand, staring. The man stared back at him, as if trying to remember. All of Crash�s virulence washed away as his eyes surveyed the older thinker, calm and tired, it seemed, everything about him sagging and weary. Crash knew immediately he couldn�t do it, couldn�t do as he planned. He looked into the man�s eyes and saw something there.

As much as Crash longed for Egriga, longed to reclaim everything he had lost, there was something in those eyes that he wouldn�t give up for Egriga. Some understanding without words. Some forbidden wisdom, damning and horrific and somehow bearable in that it was shared. It was a heavy load, and Crash knew now that he would never be rid of it. He also knew that he couldn�t carry it by himself.

More than anything, in that moment, Crash had the distinct feeling that the roof was coming down.

�I remember you,� the man said. �You haven�t come back for another match, have you? I�m rather busy.�

Crash looked down at his knife for a long moment, as if wondering what it was and why it was there. Then he put it away and looked back up and said, �No� I just wanted to talk.�

�I understand,� the strange thinker said. �Well, Crash was it?� A nod from Crash. �Crash, I�m a bit tired. More than a bit, to be perfectly honest. I�m going to go home, you�re free to come and see me tomorrow.�

Crash nodded again. �I would like that very much.� The man looked on the verge of smiling, but he didn�t. He simply began to walk away, and said,

�My name is Luther, by the by.� Crash nodded, though Luther couldn�t see.

�Wait!� Crash yelled. Luther stopped and turned to him. �You said I could see you tomorrow. Where will I find you?�

This time, Luther did smile. �How silly of me. I�ll be on the Eastern edge of town, probably at the Sentinel�s outpost, or near it. Just look for a small gathering of unusual people, it shouldn�t be hard to find.�

Luther turned and was walking again just long enough for Crash to anticipate his parting words before he pivoted and said, �But Crash, come early, I don�t intend to be there very long.�