Bass Bicher

"Down they went, to another world, an under-realm, of pain and torture. Purposelessness, to deny what rights they have to send us there. Another world, one of fire and agony. But why not this one? And they never considered it.

Bass shook his head, unaware of the world outside the ringing in his ears and continued about his day. He was walking, combing an avenue in North Chicago, avoiding the busy streets and passersby for the sake of his own inclination. He would find a way. He must.

A taxi veered by, as Bass breathed a sigh of relief and crossed the road swinging his jacket. There was much to do. Another world? Was it real? And how could he get it? Get his hands on it and take it for himself. His own world, hell and misery be damned.

The traffic swung by noisily as Bass continued under the darkened skyline towards his home. About three blocks away, it was a decent apartment, but certainly not enough to talk about. Bass walked on, quickening his pace, anxious to be home.

His five-foot ten form looming in shadows against the urban scenery, stubble scratching his chin, he ducked under a doorway and jiggled a key into the door lock.

Bass swung the door open, his nosey neighbor, a fat older woman with grey hair in her late seventies, sniffing out his presence in the hallway. There it went again. Bass's finger flicked, just a slight gesture of uncalm, and the argumentative look on the old woman's face changed. It went pale, her eyes chastened, with a slight trace of a broken, apologetic smile on her lips.

There it went again...

Bass smiled shyly and nodded at the woman; his eyes lit with a fiendish glow. He passed her and continued to his apartment, about five doors down on the right of the dusty hallway. Another key, and he was back in his renaissance. The stove in the corner, the slight couch, the refrigerator humming gently in the kitchen, it was all there. Now it was time to think.

What was this strange world underneath him? What was happening, and why did he seem to command it? Was it real? Things changed in front of him, all the time, like the old lady's smile. It could only be real. He continued thinking.

A star. That was the point. Fuck this Dostoevskian nightmare of counting kernels and wishing for another day to come. He could use it, this strange power. He knew he could, it was just a matter of time. Money? That wouldn't be an issue. He could change things. Fame? Stardom? Now that was the point. Just a flick of his finger, a hellish world where they were taken below, pain and torture, and his way only after that. That's all there was to it.

But how?

It didn't matter. As long as things went Bass's way. He had lain down on his small mattress and was gazing out at the moonlight in Chicago. What a jungle! But they would know his name soon. They would know it very well.

Or his name wasn't Bass Bicher, after all."