Rorschach

Chapter 1

So, these two guys are sitting at an outside table at Starbuck's. Expensive looking suits, red power ties, carefully coiffed hair, manicured fingernails; obviously, these guys are up and comers, very full of themselves. And, they are talking shop. Loud, boring, pompous, financial shop talk. "Blah, blah, blah debentures," says one. Blah, blah, blah fiduciary trusts," replies the other smugly. To which the first one responds adamantly, "But the current volatility of the OBUs means that accrued revenue may never be blah, blah, blah, blah blah!" It was the kind of excruciatingly dull conversion that makes one feel a strong affinity for desperate animals that chew their own feet off to escape the trapper's snare.
Finally, one of them eases out of his chair just in time to save the other patrons from either self mutilation or the espresso-fueled urge to form a violent mob. He flashes a bright, professionally bleached smile and extends a manicured mitt. "Well, John, enjoyed it." The taller, sandy-haired one, remains seated, grasps the proffered hand and matches his friend's smile, tooth for tooth.
"Ta-ta. Must dash. Let's pick this up tomorrow," says the one standing. Then he notices something peeking out of the other guy's briefcase.
"What in the name of J.P. Morgan, Wells Fargo, Chase is that? You reading tabloids now?"
"Someone left it on the table. The World Wide Weekly News. I couldn't resist it. I thought I'd bring it in to the office for a laugh." He pulls out a tabloid newspaper with a headline that screams, "Psychic Predicts Global Stock Market Crash!"
To the despair of nearby coffee drinkers who were looking forward to some peace and quiet, the sandy-haired guy sits back down. I, however, am very interested and I can't help but smile a bit. It's no secret that I'm proud of my work. He takes the tabloid and begins to read out loud, "In an unusual development, the President of the United States, the Chairman of the Federal Reserve and the head of the World Bank have gathered financial experts from around the globe to plan for the aftermath of what renowned psychic, Madame Vadima, predicts will be the worst financial disaster in the history of the world. The current economic recovery will suffer a catastrophic failure and millions will lose their income and the remainder of their life's savings. Poverty and disease will spread across the entire planet as the worldwide economy collapses. 'This recent meeting of the world's financial leaders is no coincidence,' says Madame Vadima, 'The spirits have warned me that a build up of bad karma has created an unavoidable crisis in the spirit world which will inevitably spill over into our economic system. I am advising all my clients to buy gold and gather enough supplies to protect themselves and their families for the next six years."
"Damn fine lead in," I'm thinking.
"Whoa!” John smirks, "Why we didn't we see this one coming? I guess there's no point in going to work today."
"Oh, yeah, right," says Mr. Sandy-hair, in a sarcastic, stagy voice, "We better get a hold of the character who wrote this and find out how to get in touch with Madame Vadima."
"That would be somebody named Rorschach. Rorschach. What is that? First name? Last name? Probably some crazy old biddy from Trenton who gets a nickel a word. Who buys this rag? What kind of moron believes this ridiculous garbage?"
They both laugh, amused by their own vapid wit, as they gather their belongings and head off to the train station.
If they had bothered to look back, they would have seen a pissed off, slightly paunchy (but still in good enough shape to make a hit with the ladies from time to time), balding man in his mid-fifties glowering at them as he crushes his styrofoam cup and spills over-priced coffee all over himself.
That would be me, Vernon Thompson Rorschach (although no one had better call me Vern or Vernon to my face- it's just Rorschach), not some "crazy old biddy from Trenton". Jerks like those two are one of the many reasons I normally avoid Starbuck's like the bubonic plague. Unfortunately my favorite cafe, Gary's, had just been shut down by the zealots at the health department just because of a few lousy rat turds some over-zealous health inspector found under the counter. This was the kind of morning-after that required a super abundance of really strong coffee, really fast and, unfortunately, this particular Starbuck's was the first java joint I found on my way to work that morning.
"Oooo, what kind of moron believes this ridiculous garbage?" I growled into my now-crushed, styrofoam chalice, as I dabbed at the coffee on my shirt and pants. Prissy, preppy pinheads! I had them pegged from the get go and was already calling them Brucey-Bruce and Johnny-John. Who the hell were they to say what was ridiculous? In my mind, the very existence of Starbuck's is solid proof of a chaotic, topsy-turvy universe. I am sure that I’m not the only one who remembers when you could buy coffee for pocket change. I would have been more inclined to believe that people would be zooming around in their own personal flying saucers like the Jetsons than to think that so many people could be conned into paying five or six bucks just for coffee. At least the kind of "morons" that read my stuff are generally smarter than to pay that much for a fifty-cent cup of really lousy coffee that can only be made drinkable by adding a ton of fru-fru, mommy's boy ingredients.
Anyway, I had worked long and hard at that story and I resented hearing a couple of pinkies-up, tea sippers bitch slap my work. Madame Vadima (nee Sharon Browne) was a respected psychic with many celebrity clients. I had been very lucky to catch her with some free time and, although she never charges for interviews (providing that the story includes her contact information), she can drink an Irish sailor under the table so the interview didn't exactly come cheap. Some of the stuff she told me never made it into the story.
I looked down at the crumpled cup. Great, thanks to Brucey-Bruce and Johnny-John I needed another cup of over-priced coffee. I couldn't wait for Gary's to fix the rat problem so I could just go in and say "Cupacoffee!" and not be asked what kind or whether I wanted a tall (which is the small size-what's with that anyway?), or grande or venti. And I didn't have to wait for a nauseatingly cheerful "barista" to make it. Just take the pot off the burner, toss the coffee in the cup, bring me some half-and-half, lots of sugar and leave me the hell alone - that's all I ask and that's how coffee should be served. I don't want mocha, macchiato, latte, espresso, cappuccino foofarino or any other prissy, foreign sounding crap. I don't need it served on a doily, I don't need a biscotti or a scone and I consider whipped cream in coffee to be sacrilegious. When I want coffee, I just want coffee.
Anyway, that's merely the way my day started. It only got much worse from there.

Chapter 2 The Business
How, you may ask, did a formerly respectable university professor, published in some of the more prestigious academic journals, esteemed by his colleges and revered by his pupils become a writer of sensational articles for a lurid supermarket checkout stand (now available on the internet!) tabloid? I, myself, have asked the same question and I can never quite arrive at a satisfactory answer. It could be a result of certain trumped up, so-called scandals that would best be forgotten. I will admit to an ill advised liaison with a certain indiscrete graduate student, perhaps some misappropriations of funds (merely borrowed that would have been paid back fully), and an inventive interpretation of facts and use of unorthodox resource material in a published scholarly article which was not appreciated by certain narrow-minded administrators and spineless members of peer review groups. The conclusions I arrived at in the aforementioned article were nonetheless solid and, would have challenged the accepted view of several ancient civilizations and required history to be re-written. However, the world of academia is fraught with tenured idiots, blind to anything new or original.
And so, instead of enjoying the rewards and acclaim, which he richly deserved, poor Rorschach must go on in life, slandered and vilified, a victim of academic intolerance for a few minor and thoroughly insignificant indiscretions.
However, I now prefer to think of it as a deliberate, well-calculated mid-career change. And a change for the better, I may add. Unconstrained by the inflexibilities of academia and the rigid fetters of provable fact, a writer of tabloid journalism is able to soar far above petty details and get to the real truth.
I am willing to admit that one of my guilty pleasures in the mornings when I arrived at my former office in the ivy-covered halls, was to sit down with any of several supermarket tabloids and read about the strange and incomprehensible. As an historical anthropologist, I found tales of ancient civilizations, their predictions and their possible alien origins the most interesting, I also enjoyed stories of cryptozoology (Sasquatch, the Chupacabra, the Loch Ness Monster and the like).
Upon my release from the confines of academic rigor mortis, I was now free to pursue my true calling in life, first as a freelancer, then as a respected member of the staff of that greatest exemplar of freeform journalism and salacious celebrity gossip, The World Wide Weekly News. How I relished those first years, with every shiny new scandal, paranoid parable of Alien abduction and lurking doom waiting to devastate the world at any moment! I became Rorschach, the Ruination of the Pampered and Privileged, Revealer of the Hidden and the Prophet of Doom and Damnation. Unfortunately, the first Mrs. Rorschach had no enthusiasm at all for my new new found career. In point of fact, I believe that she was embarrassed at the prospect of being the spouse of what she referred to as a "Low-life, bottom feeding tabloid hack," and quickly abandoned me for a lawyer. A lawyer, in fact, who advertises on television and calls himself "The Hammer". It still amazes me even now that she considered this a step up in class.
I was, at first, despondent and, if anyone had had the inclination to console me, they would have found me inconsolable. However, after a bitter and surprisingly brief initial period of adjustment, I realized that she had actually released me from yet another form of confinement and further enhanced my freedom to pursue my career without the conventional limitations of keeping reasonable hours and acceptable levels of sobriety. I became an unchained maniac of productivity, churning out article after article of tabloid gold.
After the initial rush of excitement, I discovered that a bit of self-moderation might also be beneficial. Especially after the over-indulgence in alcoholic beverages lead to too many mornings after and, to my regret, three more ex Mrs Rorschachs.
I was in the middle of such a reverie, when I was interrupted by the eternal stone in my heel whose constant, chafing presence, it has been my misfortune to endure for these past six months.

Chapter 3 My Nemesis
There's nothing more irritating to me than some smug sonofabitch who is so weak that he will not succumb to a little temptation now and again. The greatest pleasure these people indulge in is the complacency they experience when they contemplate the failings of us lower beings. There are, however, those who are courageous and charitable enough to suppress their better instincts and sample just enough sin and failure to serve as a warning to their fellows. I myself try to provide a bad example several times a day if I can. I like to think that there are children who will grow up to become productive members of society, straight and true, because Rorschach was there to provide a stark and unsavory illustration for their mothers’ admonitions.
In stark contrast there is Mr. Robert Q. Edwards, my managing editor, a paragon of humanity, a righteous man of industry, a man beloved by his mother and all who value that which is good and virtuous and the bitter pill which I must swallow every day when I am at work. Edwards is the bright young rising star at the World Wide Weekly News, chosen by upper management for his keen business acumen, his unparalleled expertise in proper grammar, spelling and punctuation and his thorough knowledge of the libel and slander laws. He is also an insufferable bore incapable of a single interesting thought and hopelessly addicted to fact checking.
Many a riveting article, penned by yours truly, has been consigned to oblivion or made boring and trivial due to Edward’s narrow definition of what is or is not a provable fact. His singular lack of imagination and excessive fear of torts has taken what was once a formidable force in the tabloid business and made it bland and uninteresting. Facts be damned! What we are after is truth.
It was obvious to all that I was not having a good morning when I swept into the office loudly condemning all Seattle-based purveyors of coffee to a hell that even Dante Alighieri could not have imagined. And I hoped that the hell right next door to it might be reserved for certain well dressed, pompous young asses who frequented those coffee chain stores on earth. Merely, I added charitably, so that their free-range, organically grown coffee might be served to them piping hot for all eternity.
Of course my mood brightened a bit when I approached the pathetic cubicle from which I dispense wisdom to a waiting world and saw that Edwards was standing beside my desk looking very much like a petulant child.

Chapter 3
The howling wind sent sleet rattling against the side of the car. Every once in a while a low gust zigzagged through the weeds like some desperate animal on the run. It was this kind of road that the word “desolate” was invented to describe. It was desolation surrounded by desolation. A hell of a place to get a flat!
Emily stood by the side of her car glaring at the ruined left front tire. She pulled the trench coat tight around her body and stamped her feet to keep the circulation going. Emily had never changed a tire in her life and, if she managed to get this one changed, she never wanted to change another. She decided to try Charlie one more time. Her fingers felt like bricks as she stabbed at the keypad. No signal. Nothing.
As pissed off as she had been at Charlie before, it was nothing compared to how she felt now. "Go on ahead, I'll meet you there," he said. "I have to get this presentation ready before FedEx gets here," he said. "It's only a two-hour drive," he said. "I'll see you tonight," he said. "The weather should hold until about nine o'clock and by then we'll be sitting in front of a warm fire watching the snow out the lodge window. It'll be fine. It'll be great. We'll have fun.,” he fucking said. Well Charlie, you big jerk, I'm not having any fun. It's not fine. I'm freezing my ass off. I'm scared shitless and I don't have a clue in the world how to change a frigging flat tire!
She had to chip the ice away from the lock before she could pop open the trunk. Gloves would have been a good idea. Of course they were packed away in her suitcase and she wasn't about to start rummaging through luggage right now. Just get the damned tire changed and get to the lodge! Where in hell is the tire changing thingy? She was never going to get out of here. She was going to die in this horrible place. The last thing in this life she would see was this shitty little back road surrounded by miles and miles of dead, ice caked crop stubble. Someone would find her corpse; eyes wide open with fear and misery, leaning against the side of the car encrusted with a two-inch layer of ice. She hoped it would be Charlie… the bastard! She was just about to burst into tears again when she was startled by the sound of something coming through the field. Now what? Her eyes widened and she crouched behind the car.
The evenly paced crunching on icy ground gave her hope that it might be a person. But who in the hell would be out walking in weather like this? The precipitation was too thick for her to tell if there was perhaps a house on the far side of pasture.
Hesitantly, she stood back up and craned her neck in the direction of the sound. "Hello? Who's' out there?" Her voice was almost a whisper.
The sleet stung like a swarm of angry bees as she tried to peer through the thick curtain of weather. There was an odd mixture of hope and terror as the shape emerged from the field and resolved itself into a tall, elderly man. Instinctively she reached inside her coat pocket for her mace and scanned the man for any sign of a weapon.
"You seem to be having a bit of a problem miss. Would you like some assistance?" It was an oddly hollow sounding voice with perhaps a trace of an accent that she couldn't place.
"Oh my god yes!" Emily blurted out, rather louder than she intended. She was shaking visibly from relief.
The man stepped into the dim halo of light given off by the trunk lid and quickly located the jack and tire tool. Although he seemed to be rather lightly dressed; only a thin jacket, ordinary street shoes, bare head and no gloves, the cold seemed to bother him not at all. He must live nearby, she thought.

"Mr. Rorschach?" a thin, reedy voice spoke over the phone.
"Rorschach, not mister Rorschach. Just Rorschach."
"Well, yes. … Rorschach, this is Professor Edwin Frakes. I'm an adjunct professor of


"Now I am expected to feel guilt about what is only natural? You are food, nothing else. You are of no more concern to me than the lesser creature whose bodies you consume are to you."
Its eyes were almost opaque. There was no discernible expression on its face as it edged steadily closer to the professor. I felt a deep, penetrating chill. I wanted to call out a warning to the oblivious scholar but self-preservation won out. I remained quietly crouched in my hiding place and concentrated instead on controlling my breathing. After all, what possible benefit would it be to the doomed professor if the creature killed me as well? Besides, someone had to live to tell the story to the public and if Professor Frakes lived and I died the whole thing would be written up in some obscure scientific journal and no one would ever see it except a bunch of eggheads.
"But we are both intelligent, sentient beings! We are capable of sharing ideas, thoughts … emotions," Professor Frakes exclaimed, "We communicate with you on an equal intellectual level. We have so much we can learn from each other! Doesn't that mean anything to you? Have you no feelings?"
"Of course I have feelings. I feel … amused. I must admit that I have, in fact, learned much from humans over the centuries. But why should that prevent me from killing you? After all, there are so many. If I kill a few to satisfy my needs, there are always others to interact with and learn from. When I first became a vampire, I found the kill very exhilarating and I killed as often as I had opportunity. " Its milky eyes widened and its nostrils flared as it spoke. "But after a while I began to realize that human beings can be dangerous and quite clever when alarmed. I understood that indiscriminate killing was endangering my own existence. It was then that I decided to limit my killing to sustenance and self-preservation. No one has need to fear me unless I am hungry or they pose a threat."
Professor Frakes sighed with relief. "Well… then. There is so much I want to ask you. I hardly know where to begin. For instance; how old are you? How did you become a vampire? Who were you before? When did you first become a vampire? How many others like you are there?"
"I have lived for a bit more than seven centuries. But, alas for you, I'm afraid that your other questions will have to remain unanswered. At this moment … I find myself very, very hungry."
With that, the vampire’s mouth widened and in one swift motion, its talons snatched the professor off his feet as the long, sharp fangs sank deep into his carotid artery. The body thrashed only for a moment and then was limp and still. The only sound now was a revolting slurping noise the creature made as it drained every last drop of blood from the late "world's foremost expert on vampires". That and the thundering of my pounding heart as I tried desperately to wedge myself deeper into the crevice.
I was convulsed with terror. I knew that if the creature listened carefully, it would hear me soon enough. In spite of my best efforts, I could not stop my body from shivering violently. So much so that the coins in my pocket began to jingle with the shaking. I clamped his eyelids shut and slumped to the floor, trying desperately to keep from passing out.
"Mr. Rorschach! I know you are there. You may come out now. Don't worry, it is completely safe. Professor Frakes was very nourishing and my appetite is quite satisfied. You have nothing to fear."
If there had been hairs on my hairs, the sound of the vampire's attempt at being reassuring would have had them standing on edge.
"Come now, Mr. Rorschach, even were I still a bit hungry, I would need to be absolutely famished to get past your revolting stench of cheap liquor, foul tobacco and bargain-basement cologne."
That did it! No one, not even an evil, sonofabitch, blood-sucking fiend, could get away with insulting Rorschach like that. I stood up, thoroughly pissed off and groped around in my pocket for the crucifix. When I felt it in my grasp, I held it out in front of me and uttered the words spoken by heroes in every vampire movie ever made, "Back, you fiend!"
The vampire looked confused at first and then began to laugh. It had never occurred to me that this vampire might not be Christian.
"Are we going for a ride, Mr. Rorschach?"
Now it was my turn to be confused. I looked at my hand. I was holding up my car keys. Panicked, I dropped the keys and jammed my hands back into his pockets. It was then that I remembered that the crucifix had been jabbing me in the leg on the way to the cave and I had stuffed it into the glove compartment. All of the air went out of me like one of those cheap pool toys I was always giving my nephews.
I swallowed the acidic bile that had tried to come up my throat. Glancing nervously at the broken body of Professor Frakes, I stammered weakly, "Now that I'm a threat to you, I… I guess you're going to kill me too." I hunched his shoulders up high to hide as much of my neck as possible.
"Don't be absurd, Mr. Rorschach. I have read your work and I'm afraid that your articles have even less credibility than the ridiculous publication that prints them. There is absolutely nothing to be gained in killing you. So, go. Write your story. The more people who laugh at your fatuous little musings the less they will be inclined to believe in my existence and come looking for me."
"Look," I growled through gritted teeth, "I know you're completely evil but you don't need to be such a total bastard about it."
"Ah! Ever the word smith, aren't you Mr. Rorschach?"
I stumbled past the vampire and the late Professor Frakes.
I could feel the steam of anger rising to the surface but I waited until I was in full sunlight outside the cave before I said it. "And, it's RORSCHACH, you scum bucket, not Mister Rorschach, not Señor Rorschach, not Monsieur Rorschach and not Signore Rorschach! RORSCHACH! Got it, asshole?"
My ears burned with impotent fury as I heard the creature's laughter echoing through the cave.
Despite the bright sun, I did not feel safe at all and I ran to the car as rapidly as a person of my girth could. I tore open the door and, defeated, slumped into the seat, wheezing and coughing. As soon as I could catch my breath, I muttered to myself "Go ahead and laugh, you evil asshole. We'll see who gets the last laugh. No one, I mean NO ONE, talks to Rorschach that way and gets away with it. I'll find a way to make you pay for what you did. And, I'll make you pay for killing Frakes, too, poor bastard. Oh no, Mr. big bad-ass vampire, don't think for one minute you've heard the last from Verne Rorschach."
I was still shaking badly when I reached into my pocket for the car keys and remembered that I had dropped them back in the cave. Shit!
"Hey!” I called back into the cave with more bravado than I actually felt, "Uh, excuse me… Nosferatu! Hey, Dracula! A little help here…" The laughter was becoming almost hysterical.
"Yes, Mist… uh, Rorschach? What is it?" The bastard was making snorting sounds, trying to suppress its laughter.
"Just f-ing control yourself for a minute!… Cut it the hell out, now. I mean it! Look, Dammit! Could you please stop being such an asshole for just one measly minute and toss me my damn car keys?"
"Of course... uh, Rorschach", He said in a particularly, sarcastic, euro trashy way, rolling his R’s for effect. From the darkness of the cavern, the glint of the key chain spiraled out over road.
"You’re welcome to come back and visit anytime. And do please bring a friend," he added in a sinister tone.
For the entire journey back to my apartment, I alternated terrified glances in the rearview mirror with an enthusiastic mix of my most choice obscenities punctuated with some very sincere and inventive blasphemies.