Appointment with Dylan Thorne
by Daniel Beadle - Monday, October 19, 2009
Dylan Thorne sits comfortably in his tower of glass and steel, looking out the window of his office on the hundred and sixth floor. The symphonic melodies of Charles Gounod play softly in the background, as Dylan’s assistant, Mr. Gray, brings him up to speed on the day’s events.“…Iran has amassed troops in Teheran as a result, so we should be seeing field use of the weapons we’ve supplied them with. Naturally, conflict won’t start without a spark, so we’re arranging for the Annihilator to —”
The intercom on Dylan’s desk interrupts: “Mr. Thorne? Sorry to interrupt your status briefing, but you have a visitor.”
Dylan turns his attention to the monitor on his desk. “No need to apologize. He’s expected. Send him in.” Dylan looks up at Mr. Gray. “We’ll pick this up tomorrow. I just have to tie up this loose end. Good night, Mr. Gray.”
Mr. Gray nods silently as he turns to leave.
Stalker enters the massive office, carrying himself with both nervousness and restrained malice. Mr. Gray looks at Stalker with condescension as he exits the room. Stalker sees something oddly familiar in Mr. Gray’s face, but he can’t recall what it is. Mr. Gray shuts the double doors as he leaves.
Dylan stands with his back to Stalker, looking at the twilight cityscape below him. He turns, and looks at his visitor with cold eyes. The two men stand nearly thirty feet apart, saying nothing verbally, but staring at each other with mutual animosity.
“Dad,” says Stalker.
“Graham,” responds Dylan. “Or should I call you ‘Stalker.’ Probably a more appropriate title. Would you agree?”
Stalker says nothing.
“It hurts, doesn’t it son?” Dylan begins. “It hurts way down there, where you can’t reach it. It’s like this disease rotting at your core. It sits inside of you, and sometimes you forget it’s there. But then something happens, someone does or says something about love, and it all comes flooding back. And you feel it… right in your gut.” Dylan pauses. “It will never go away.”
Stalker swallows before speaking. “You took everything that mattered…”
“No. I gave you everything that mattered. Who do you think she was, anyway? Did you think some young, nubile female just pranced into your life, and fell in love with you? Did you think that free will was part of this equation?”
Dylan looks away. “Let me tell you something about women. There are three basic ways to acquire them. One: You negotiate. This is the most accepted method, but it takes time and salesmanship. Two: You steal them. You take them against their will and make them your own. And three: You buy them, and cut through all the lies.” He looks back at Stalker. “Your beloved Jennifer was bought. She was nothing more than a high-priced whore, paid to give you the full ‘girlfriend experience.’ You’ll have noticed that she didn’t part her lips when she kissed you. Didn’t you find that curious? No? Figures that we had to hire someone to pretend to love you, since there’s no way in hell that any girl could on her own volition. Look at you. That funnel chest of yours gives you the posture of a vulture, not to mention your non-existent self-confidence.”
Stalker is hurt, but he doesn’t reveal it. “She caused me far more pain than she should’ve been able to.”
“Yes. That’s the risk you take when falling in love. But don’t feel so bad. All women are whores, son. It’s just, most of them don’t admit it. I can toss a wad of cash at any random female, and she’ll get on her knees. Even when you bargain for their company, you’re stilling paying for it in some sense.”
“So why the manipulation? What was this all about?”
“There were two goals I attempted to achieve with you. Number one was to see if I could suspend the free will of someone, and manipulate circumstances to reach a conclusion I desired. And number two was to make you a little more like your father. Like me. And by transforming you from some lovesick romantic into a killer achieved both goals. Destroying the object of your affection released you from the emotion she inspired.”
“I don’t understand…”
“Before you had a broken heart, you were hopelessly fooled into thinking that women were important. Now that they’ve let you down, you have no reason to cling to that pathetically outdated notion. The lessons we learn from pain make us the strongest. You know this. Pain will never go away, but it will push you to do things you never thought possible."
“But I didn’t kill her.”
“Is that what Phelps led you to believe? Who do you think he answers to?” Dylan shakes his head. “Is your memory that far gone, Graham? I suppose you’re looking for absolution in thinking I killed her myself. But that’s all on you.”
“How could you manipulate me into this?”
“Women are USELESS, son,” Dylan continues. “They serve no purpose, save that which we imbue them with. They’re completely unnecessary, and will drain you of everything you are, if you let them into your life and your mind. They will break you, and leave you begging for more. Is that what you want?"
Stalker is silent.
“Females are naturally inferior. This is because everything that they are is inexorably tied to sexuality. They can never escape it. Men, on the other hand, experience sexual gratification so briefly that the entire process can be likened to the release of bodily wastes. In short, women are little more than glorified toilets, waiting to receive the wastes we must regularly expunge.”
Dylan turns and pours himself a glass of brandy. “You’d think that emotional independence would be as highly valued as financial independence.”
Stalker approaches Dylan. "There is a darkness in you that found its way into me. Why did you have to put the burden of your legacy on my shoulders? Why couldn't you just paint a fucking picture or write a book?"
Dylan looks at Stalker, measuring his anger and belligerent body language. “Careful, son. As far as you think you’ve fallen… you can always sink lower. You of all people should know that. If you choose to make me your enemy, the pain you feel now is nothing compared to what it could be."
“Is that a threat?”
“Threats are so… pedestrian.”
“I’m not scared of you. …I have no fear. A man with nothing to live for has that much.”
Dylan observes a solitary tear roll down Stalker’s cheek. He finishes his drink and offers his next remark. “What’s the matter, Graham? No one to wipe away your tears anymore? I’d call you a faggot, but that would imply that you still have sex with people.”
Stalker lets the scalpel hidden in his sleeve slip into his hand, as he takes a swipe at Dylan’s throat. Dylan effortlessly blocks the blade, and punches Stalker in the face with an open hand. Stalker lands flat on his back. Dylan reaches down and lifts Stalker up by his neck, then braces him against the wall as he chokes him with one hand.
“Giving you a life lesson was only my secondary objective. I have no problem with ending your life right here.”
Stalker feels his senses distort the room, and the operatic music of “Ave Maria” takes on a sinister tone.
“There is a visceral thrill in killing a man with your own hands. It’s almost as if you can feel the life drain out of them at that critical moment.” Stalker gags as he struggles against Dylan’s powerful grip. "...Let me tell you something. I never wanted a child. I would've had you aborted if I didn't have some measure of curiosity over how you'd turn out. …There are few people whose lives I actually value. Unfortunately for you, yours is not among them. Your continued, pathetic existence vexes me.
“…That’s the problem with children. They either embody all of your flaws, or they surpass you, and make you resent them for it. Either way, they are useless.”
From Stalker’s perspective, Dylan’s face becomes a shadow. Reality seems to twist and flicker, like some malfunctioning film projector. For a moment, Stalker imagines that Mr. Dark is choking him. A tear trickles down Stalker’s cheek. Darkness consumes him, a darkness from which there is no pursuit for the living, and no return for the dead.
“…And if you think you've won, you never saw me change the game that we have been playing.”—Chris Cornell
