The Eye of the Bedlam Bride — Chapter no 23

[ 23 ]

I TOOK A QUICK GLANCE OVER MY SHOULDER TO MAKE CERTAIN THERE were no fellow crawlers watching, and then I took a step inside the room. My view counter was absolutely spiked, so I knew there was no way I’d get through this without Donut eventually finding out. I sighed and let the sticky, filthy door close behind me.

I was assaulted with the stench of male sweat, grease, and cheap cologne.

Entering the Penis Parade.

I took another step, and a second notification flashed across my interface.

New Achievement! “We Want Meat! We Want Meat!”

Thunder Down Under. Magic Mike. Chippendales.

While the female burlesque and peepshow has a long, interesting history going back centuries, the all-male revue as an attraction is a relatively recent phenomenon in your culture. It wasn’t until the disco era did some entrepreneurs start to realize that packs of women were a valid demographic in the lucrative art of taking money from horny people.

Take a physically gifted, steroid-enhanced male, give him some dancing lessons, teeth whitening strips, a shower, a banana, a Guns-N- Roses CD, and an entire bottle of baby oil, and then you basically plop him into the equivalent of the inside of a female restroom at a nightclub, and you got yourself a money-making empire.

Also, you may have not noticed this yet, but there’s a hierarchy to these things in the Desperado Club. The deeper the floor, the higher the quality of the performers. At least that’s how it’s supposed to be. You might want to judge for yourself.

You’ve entered a male strip club establishment.

Reward: You’ve received 10 gold pieces to use as tips. I heard some of

them let you stuff the gold directly into their g-strings. Oh hell, I’ve thrown in a bottle of hand sanitizer, too.

The deep bass of a somewhat familiar Billie Eilish song pounded, drowning out the techno from the dance club behind me. I took a moment to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. A ridiculously buff troll creature stood upon the main stage, gyrating to the song while a group of drunk, female elf and dwarf NPCs screeched, their voices carrying above the pounding music.

The green-skinned, tusked troll was completely naked, and he carried a massive club in his hand. There was no pole like in a female strip club. The troll had a high, black mohawk that waved back and forth as he spun and twirled the wooden club with the enthusiasm of a majorette tripping on ecstasy. The squealing NPCs kept throwing gold pieces at the dancer, and they were pinging off of him like hail, clicking and rolling off in all directions. A skinny, young crocodilian in a Penis Parade t-shirt scrambled about with a bucket, gathering the coins all up. The bucket was almost full of gold.

The name floating over the dancer was Author Steve Rowland. Level 50 Forest Troll. The skinny kid collecting the coins was Bucket Boy. Level 10 Crocodilian.

I reached up and drew a privacy bubble over my head, which had the effect of only slightly muting the music, but not the screeching of the women.

My eyes searched until I found a line of male NPCs, all sitting at the darkest end of the dingy bar, all staring at me. I was the only crawler in the club. I started searching the men, trying to see in the dark which one had an elbow tattoo of a spiderweb.

“Hey there, sailor,” a deep, Spanish voice said, sidling up to me. I jumped, surprised. I examined the shiny, oiled-up man. He was human, and he appeared to be about seventy years old, with a long, white beard, a conquistador-style helmet, and little, spandex shorts along with an open vest.

The man was jacked, but it was weird because he seemed so old. I was several inches taller than him.

“Are you here looking for fun or looking for a job?” the man asked. He looked me up and down and ran his hand across my jacket. “It’s been a while since I’ve tilted a giant.”

The name over his head was Dong Quixote. Level 45 Human.

“I’m looking for Damascus Steel,” I said.

“Oh,” he said, taking a step back. He let out a breath, and half of his

muscles turned to flab. I blinked at that. “He’s the cranky one over there.” He pointed at a large man, sitting in shadow at the end of the bar, the only one not facing the crowd. He sat around the corner, separated from the others.

The elderly stripper sucked in another breath, turned away, and approached a group of squealing women. On stage, the troll was bouncing in circles, pretending his club was a hobby horse while he smacked his own ass. The troll suddenly dropped the club and fell onto his side, grabbing onto his face in apparent pain.

“Rosemarie, you know the rules,” a new, deep voice called. It was coming over the loudspeaker, but it cut through my bubble. “Stop aiming for his face. If he loses an eye again, you’re paying for the healer.”

I looked up to see a raised DJ booth, hidden in the shadows between the bar and the stage. I caught sight of what looked like a skeleton wearing a golden, glinting crown. He was leaning over his console, glaring down at a group of women.

“Fuck off,” an elderly dwarf shouted at the DJ booth, followed by a chorus of laughter. This was apparently Rosemarie. She had some sort of weird, black and white pet creature on her shoulder. It looked like it was maybe a mole.

I returned my attention to the dancers, and I approached the end of the counter. I caught eyes with a large, shirtless man with dark, purple skin and snake-like features. It immediately reminded me of Eva, though this guy only had two arms. Anaconda. Level 75. Quarter Naga. This guy was one of Donut’s favorites, and he was one of the lead dancers of the club. He looked me up and down appraisingly. I walked right past him, moved around the edge of the bar, and tapped the man at the very end on the shoulder. He didn’t look up. His body felt like it was made of solid metal.

“No,” the gravelly-voiced man said. “I don’t go on until later.” He was hunched over a steaming mug of something, possibly tea, and he had an open book on the counter of the bar, though I had no idea how he could read in the dark. While not as old as Dong Quixote, I could tell this guy was older, too.

My eyes caught the spiderweb pattern on his left elbow.

“I’m not looking for a dance. We have a few mutual friends, one of whom is Donut.”

The man took a sip of tea, closed his book, and turned to face me.

Damascus Steel felt like metal when I touched him, but looked as if he was made of regular skin. Sort of. He wasn’t as buff as some of the other

dancers, but he was well toned and much too large to be an elf, despite the pointed ears. While he didn’t have as many tattoos as Signet, he did have several. His arms were covered in old, faded ink. His chest featured a tattoo of spread, bat-like demon wings with an anatomical heart in the center. In addition to the tattoos, the man was heavily scarred in several places. Old, red welts cut across the ink on his chest, like he’d once been raked by giant talons.

He wore an open, embroidered vest and wavy, wide pants, Aladdin style.

He appeared mostly humanoid with Arabic features, but his body seemed a little… fuzzy around the edges, like he was constantly going in and out of focus. Smoke rose off his skin and closely-cropped hair, almost like he was steaming. His eyes were completely white with no pupils at all. Smoke rose from the sockets.

Only when he turned did I notice a pair of stubby horns upon his head.

These weren’t the shaved off trunks of larger horns, like in the Hellboy comic. These were tiny, little stubs, like something one would see on a baby

goat.

Damascus Steel. Level 75. Ifrit.

Assistant lead dancer at the Penis Parade. th The closer one gets to the world of Sheol on the 15floor, the more demons one might find leaking out into the regular world, especially in places that haven’t been cleansed in a while. And by “cleansed,” I mean in a biblical sense.

An ifrit is like a cockroach or a rat, though usually a lot sexier and more entertaining than either of those. And smart. And cunning. And they usually smell, good, too, which is weird considering how they look.

Where there is debauchery, there are usually demons. Where there is sin, there are Ifrit. Unlike a succubus or incubus, who are inordinately obsessed with sex, an Ifrit is more attuned to the aura of lust and sin and envy and greed and all those other nasty iniquities that spill over the world. That doesn’t make him good or bad, any more than a guy who jacks off to granny porn is bad. Actually, I’m not sure where I’m going with this. Try not to get into a fight with this guy because he’ll fuck you up.

He, interestingly, has the exact same elbow tattoo as you.

“That was Author Steve Rowland,” the DJ intoned over the loudspeaker.

“Once we get that coin dislodged from his eye socket, he’ll be available for a

private dance. Watch out, ladies. You’re gonna get wet. Coming up next is Splash Zone!”

The crowd squealed with excitement as some hair metal song started to play.

“Carl,” Damascus said, looking me up and down. His eyes focused on my elbow tattoo. He also appeared to examine the other, large tattoo on my left arm, the ball of snakes. My Enemy of the Church tat that I’d gotten for smashing the Diwata shrine. “I’m glad you’ve come to visit. Donut speaks highly of you.” He paused. “As does Katia.”

“Katia is the one who finally convinced me to come here.” I rubbed my

elbow.

He nodded. “Walk with me.”

I hesitated, but only for a moment. He left his book and tea on the counter. He led me across the room to a row of cubicles set against the far wall, just to the side of the stage. Above, some sort of otter thing was gyrating up on the platform while a song, apparently called “Girl Money,” blasted. The crowd enthusiastically peppered him with coins while Bucket Boy scrambled to pick them up.

We approached the cubicles, which all had red or green lights over them, presumably indicating if they were occupied or not. Loud, female groaning emanated from the one occupied room followed by the familiar, Spanish voice of Dong Quixote shouting, “Thou hast seen nothing yet! Thou hast seen nothing yet!”

“Ohhh, look at that,” a female dwarf called, looking me up and down.

“Somebody is getting a go at the forge.” Cackles followed.

This was Rosemarie, the same one who’d gotten in trouble for pelting the troll dancer in the eye with a coin. The dwarf woman was older than I originally thought. The creature on her shoulder was indeed a mole, though it had a fur pattern that was unusual, almost like an Australian cattle dog. The little creature snuffled at me, and the name floating over it was Bernie.

Damascus turned and bowed with a flourish, which caused more women to laugh. He moved to the very last cubicle against the corner and held the door open for me. I stepped inside. He slapped my ass as I passed.

The room was small, about the size of a walk-in closet, and it was covered top to bottom in purple, shag carpet. A swing contraption covered in buckles hung from the ceiling.

My eyes immediately caught the hidden door against the other wall. It

was a portal. I activated my skill and took a screenshot of the other side, revealing a brick-covered hallway with torches on the wall.

Damascus stepped inside and closed the door to the club behind him. He locked the door, and without a word, he stepped past me and to the secret door. He pushed his hand against it, and it opened. He stepped within. I

followed.

Entering the Guild of Suffering.

Welcome, spider. Welcome home.

My privacy bubble disappeared, just like it did when I exited the Desperado. The music from the club stopped. The temperature rose significantly. Damascus paused in the hall, and pointed to the lone door at the end. It was a regular, wooden door, carved with a spiderweb pattern. I walked toward the it, and the moment I put my hand against it, I was assaulted with a

wall of text.

New Achievement! The Molly Maguires.

You have found and entered the main room of a hidden guild, to which you are a member.

Buckle yourself in, buddy boy. This is gonna be a long one.

There are several types of secret societies out there.

There’s the Ivy League college kind, where it’s a bunch of rich idiots who rent out a place, plaster a few pagan symbols on the wall, and then they wear masks with horns and leaves and shit on them and pretend they’re in some Stanley Kubrick fever dream, just so they can forget they’re destined to live out lives filled with salmon-colored shorts and Izod shirts and mind-numbing meetings with financial advisors.

There’s orgy-themed secret societies, speaking of Stanley Kubrick.

Those are usually, uh, visually unpleasant people with unsatisfactory sex lives who get together every other month at some house in the middle of nowhere and get drunk and have lots of unsatisfactory sex with other people and pretend like they’re having a great time.

There are altruistic ones. People who want to save the world by doing good deeds. That’s the most boring kind, so we’re not talking about them.

There’s the evil kind, too. Usually power and profit motivated. The ones where the ultra-elite get together on an island and eat panda bears and discuss how to price-fix world or galactic markets. Yes, those groups really exist. More on these guys in a second.

But first, let’s talk about another type of secret organization. One that tries to make a difference, oftentimes outside the confines of the law.

Story time.

In September of 1869, there was a terrible fire at the Avondale coal mine near Plymouth, Pennsylvania. Over 100 coal miners lost their lives.

Horrific conditions and safety standards were blamed for the disaster.

It wasn’t the first accident. Hundreds of miners died in these mines every year. And those that didn’t, lived in squalor. Children as young as eight worked day in and out. They broke their bodies and gave their lives for nothing but scraps.

That day of the fire, as thousands of workers and family members gathered outside the mine to watch the bodies of their friends and loved ones brought to the surface, a man named John Siney stood atop one of the carts and shouted to the crowd: Men, if you must die with your boots on, die for your families, your homes, your country, but do not longer consent to die, like rats in a trap, for those who have no more interest in you than in the pick you dig with.

That day, thousands of coal miners came together to unionize.

That organization, the Workingmen’s Benevolent Association, managed to fight, for a few years at least, to raise safety standards for the mines by calling strikes and attempting to force safety legislation. …Until 1875, when the union was obliterated by the mine owners.

Why was the union broken so easily? Because they were out in the open. They were playing by the rules. How can you win a deliberately unfair game when the rules are written by your opponent?

The answer is you can’t. You will never win. Not as long as you follow their arbitrary guidelines.

This is a new lesson to me. She’s been teaching me so many things, about who I am. About what I am. What I really am. About what must be done.

Anyway, during this same time, it is alleged a separate, more militant group of individuals had formed in secret. The Molly Maguires. Named after a widow in Ireland who fought against predatory landlords, the coal workers of Pennsylvania became something a little more proactive, supposedly assassinating over two dozen coal mine supervisors and managers. …Until Pinkerton agents, hired by the same mine owners, infiltrated

the group and discovered their identities.

Several of the alleged Mollies ended up publicly hanged. Others disappeared. You get the picture.

So, that’s another type of secret society. The yeah-we’re-terrorists- but-we-strongly-feel-we’re-justified-and-fuck-you-if-you-don’t-agree society.

So, what’s the moral of this little history lesson?

This sort of thing happens all day, every day across the universe. It happens in Big Ways, and it happens in little ways, too. The strong stomp on the weak. The weak fight back, usually within the boundaries of the rat trap they find themselves confined. They almost always remain firmly stomped.

But sometimes, the weak gather in secret. They make plans. They work outside the system to effect change.

Like the Mollies, they usually end up just as stomped as everyone else.

But that’s just life. At least they fucking tried. They died with their boots on, as much as I hate that expression. They died with their boots on for their people, their family, not for some rich, nameless organization that gives no shits whether they live or die. Or go extinct. Or are trapped for a millennia after they’re done being used.

In my opinion, that’s the only type of society that’s worth joining, worth fighting for. Sure, you’re probably gonna die. But if you find yourself in such a position where such an organization is necessary, what do you have to lose? How can you look at yourself if you don’t do everything you can?

And that brings us to the door you’re standing in front of right now.

What does all this have to do with what you’re going to find on the other

side?

Nothing!

Ignore everything I just said. This is just some demi-god trying to scrabble his way to the top. That’s yet another type of society. A religion- themed one, and it has nothing to do with what I just said. Just do what he says, and you’ll probably be fine. Actually, that’s terrible advice. Just

do you.

Anyway…

Reward: You’ve received the gift of enlightenment! You’re welcome.

“What the fuck was that?” I muttered. I’d received a lot of weird achievements, but that was one of the strangest ones I’d ever gotten.

I copy and pasted the notification, which had already changed itself to a short, more standard achievement in my history tab.

“Why are you just standing there?” Damascus asked. “Don’t be a coward.

Go in, get it over with, and come out. I have a reputation to maintain, so you must hurry.”

I sighed and pushed my way all the way into the room.