"Paul Di Filippo - The Short Ashy Afterlife" - читать интересную книгу автора (Di Filippo Paul)

PAUL DI FILIPPO

THE SHORT ASHY AFTERLIFE OF HIRAM P. DOTTLE

THE HEAD OF THE SPIKE BITES deep into the hard substance of my body, and the man's blunt
teeth grip the lower part of my anatomy with compulsive, fearful force. The spike supports me, while my
body in turn supports the man's entire weight. He's a small, dumpy fellow, to be sure, but still the strain
on me is considerable. Relying thus on a small piece of rusty hardware for our lives, both of us dangle
over five stories of empty space, the cobbled street far below us a rain-slick bumpy surface lit by a few
dim streetlights casting golden pools of luminance.
My body feels as if it's going to come apart at any moment. For the first time in this new form I feel true
pain. Even the birthing blades, the planes and chisels and sandpaper, and the subsequent daily flames
applied to my skin offered no sensations such as this.
Oh my goodness, I think wildly, how did I ever come to such a bizarre fate?
And just then the gunshot rings out.
My name is Hiram P. Dottle, and once upon a time I enjoyed a quiet easy life, full of cerebral and sensual
pleasures of a mild nature. No guns or danger intruded then into my reclusive private sphere. But all of
that security and somnolence ended with the arrival of Sparky Flint.
But I rush ahead of my story. More of this temptress soon enough.
Although not born to great wealth, at the time my tale commences I was living comfortably on a
guaranteed income, having retired in early middle age from my career as an accountant. I owed my good
fortune to the demise of an elderly and well-off maiden aunt in Crescent City: Denise K. Sinkel, formerly
of the Massachusetts Sinkels. Her will left everything to "my nephew, Hiram, the only one who always
remembered his lonely old aunt at Christmas."
This statement was accurate, even down to poor Aunt Denise's famous self-pity. My contribution to Aunt
Denise's good cheer was, I fear, minimal, and offered me as much pleasure as it did her. I always saw to
it that Aunt Denise's house was graced with several handmade wreaths and garlands, as well as a few
poinsettia plants during the holidays. Riding the bus myself from Central City to its urban neighbor, I kept
careful watch over the homemade wreaths and personally cultivated plants resting securely in overhead
stowage, never relaxing my vigilance until the cabbie deposited me safely at Aunt Denise's.
Horticulture and flower arranging, you see, were my hobbies. You'd probably never guess it from looking
at me, but accounting was never my real love, merely a safe and reliable means of earning my income.
Mother and Father both insisted that I turn my adult hand to some low-risk mode of employment
promising a small if steady return. So I reluctantly discarded my typical childhood fascination with such
icons of daring exploration as Lowell Thomas, Frank Buck and Richard Halliburton -- why, today I can
hardly believe the youthful dreams I had, involving travel to exotic climes and battle with wild animals and
savage natives! -- and when I reached my early maturity I enrolled at Keating's School of Accountancy.
Thirty years later Mother and Father had long ago passed away, deeding me the ancestral home where I
still occupied my boyhood room. The property consisted of a well-kept but fading Victorian manse set
on five acres of land in a neighborhood rather fallen, if you'll permit the pun, to seed. This surprising
legacy descended on an asocial bachelor who in the morning mirror seemed undressed without his green
celluloid eyeshade and sleeve garters. Having perused enough ledgers and balance sheets to build a
tower to the Moon -- had I cared to indulge in such fanciful behavior -- I was more than ready to put my
career behind and plunge more deeply into my passions.
The redeeming moments in what I confess most people would categorize as a boring life occurred in my
garden. In the suburbs of Central City, my property, through diligent and loving application, had been
ultimately turned into a miniature Versailles, replete with espaliers, pollarded aisles and substantial
fountains. I venture to say that not even the immaculately landscaped grounds of Idlewhile Cemetery (I
am naturally excluding that spooky and mysteriously overgrown portion in the northwest corner) could
compete on a foot-by-foot basis with my land. Why, the neighborhood children, dirty urchins all,