Abishag Reborn

HOMESTEAD I

TOAD RIVER, British Columbia –

Abishag’s alarm goes off.

05:00

“shit…” he grumbles as he rolls out of his bed. He stands and stretches. His muscles loosen up.

That was a good thing.

Some days, they didn’t give up sleep so easily.

He shuffles out of his bedroom and into the main area of his home.

The home – a large log Cabin - was situated in the forest about two kilometers from Toad River proper – only a rough path that was cleared through the woods connected the home with the Alaska Highway – which Toad River was situated off of.

The home was laid out as follows – One large main room with a bedroom off to one side and a shitter to the other side. The Kitchen – such as it was – consisted of an old fridge, a stove and a cupboard for pots and pans. This was all part of the main room. There was a wood burning fireplace on one wall. In front of this was a rocking chair and a beat up old couch. On the table beside the chair was a radio. There was a Television – a decent one with a 50 inch screen on a stand which was hooked to a satellite dish outside. The dish and television were quite out of place here, the home being as Spartan as it was. All power needs were provided by solar panels on the roof and two generators.

Abishag turns on the dining area lamp, gets a pot of coffee going and then slowly makes his way to the crapper. He farts three times on the way – each blast more urgent than the next. You could set his bowels to a clock. The five AM shit was a way of life here.

The business done and hands washed, he goes back to the kitchen and pours the coffee. He swallows the warm beverage down along with 2 pills from a bottle labelled simply C-87.

The C-87 arrived each month – dropped off for him at the Toad River postal outlet…which was really just a storage box with a key.

He had to take these for his condition….although it had been so long now and his memory was fuzzy as to what that condition actually was. It was for his own good. The Doctors told him so.

Abishag goes out to sit on his porch and watch the sun begin to rise.

It was a good life he had here. It was far, far removed from his past and this was for the best.

A few years back – he had spent time at the Happy Hollows Mental facility on the east coast of the United States. It was just outside Boston – far, far from here.

It was there he woke up from what seemed like another life.

He spent many hours talking to Dr. Liftlander about this life which the staff at Happy Hallows had insisted was a delusion…a very elaborate dream. In this dream, he wasn’t Brock Abishag.

He was Brother Abishag. He was part of a cult…except he didn’t see it as a cult. Not at the time.

HAPPY HALLOWS I

“How would you describe it then?” Dr. Liftlander asks, curious to the response.

Abishag looked around the room. It was sterile enough – white with a plain table and a large one way mirror.

On the other side of that mirror, Dr. Cutter observed through cold, heartless eyes.

“I guess it was more of an order. Yes, an order. We followed Dr. Summeroff. We all did.”

Liftlander surpresses a snicker. “Dr. Summeroff? As in ‘I want the Summer off and need a Doctor’s note? Is this Summeroff a brother of Dr. Goodnote?”

“I’m sorry?” Abishag asks, his blood beginning to boil at the perceived mockery. Not so long ago, he would have grabbed this puny pencil pushing schmuck around his neck and wiped that smug look from his face…

Except that ‘not so long ago’ wasn’t real…was it?

Who was he then?

Surely there was a time before he fell into delusion? A childhood?

Why couldn’t he remember?

“I’m sorry Mr. Abishag. I was just teasing there”, Liftlander says, “…trying to lighten the mood. Tell me more about this…this Order?”

“Well we had a place…a compound…there were a lot of us there…most were acolytes – trainees I guess you’d call them. We had people from all walks of life serving in the compound. Carpenter classes…warrior classes, medicine, vinters…you haven’t had wine until you’ve sampled the good stuff from Brother Janus…Janus was a vinter but he was also a warrior…did you know he spent time as a wrestler in a federation called…Gateway City Wrestling? A powerfull trainee that one…could have been great…like Abaddon.”

Liftlander looks to the mirror for a moment than back at Abishag, “You do realize though that none of these things were real…this compound…Brother Janus or his exemplary wine…”

“I…I’m not sure.”

“Mr. Abishag…we both know it gets more…delusional…from here. Surely though from what you’ve just told me, you must understand how it sounds? Last time, you told me you were a Champion Wrestler in a federation called…what was it?”
“WECW…and ROW…I was the champion for a time in WECW…the glory we brought to the compound in those days…across all the federations that mattered the Order had its warriors…WECW, ICW, Kapow…”

“Yes, except there is no record of those….”

Abishag frowns.

Behind the glass, Dr. Cutter smiles.

A figure next to her, Mr. Bradly, says quietly, “He’s buying it…”

“It would appear so…” Cutter says.

“Good” Bradly says curtly, “Summeroff is in a coma due to his meddling in RSW. Abaddon is chasing his ghosts in the Middle East and Buzi has gone missing on a pilgrimage in Chili. That just leaves this one here...and President McStrumps wants him to forget all about the Chilean Blob and the mess that whole thing caused. People don’t realize the Blob and its followers were behind the scenes destroying WECW and ROW from the inside. Cities ruined – Detroit…and a whole city – Mount Vernon – wiped off the Map! A whole roster of wrestlers and over a hundred thousand people packed into that Tiny Lister Arena dead! Not to mention the chaos that preceded all that…Summeroff and his followers must never wield such power again. The President would be most displeased should the nation be turned to an army of Chilean Blob Cult Worshippers! That was Summeroff’s end goal you know…to move it from the Wrestling Arena’s into everyday life! A nation of Blob worshippers….can you imagine such a thing!?”

“No…I couldn’t…but he could…” Cutter says and points back in Abishag’s direction.

“Tell me about the Blob”, Dr. Liftlander asks. “We’ve spoke of this thing in a lot of our conversations but we haven’t confronted it head on…what was the Blob? How did it come to be? Why did you follow it?”

“It healed me once”, Abishag states, “I should have died…I fell into a boiling tank once…I suffered burns that should have killed me…I was taken back to the compound and encased in his gelatinous glory…I was healed…well…that’s…that’s how I remember it. I guess that was part of the delusion.”

“Indeed it was”, Liftlander replies.

“The Blob”, Abishag continues, “well some thought it was just whale fat that washed up on the shores of Chili all those years ago…Summeroff knew differently. Abaddon, Buzi and I saw it’s power. It was magnificent. All knowing. All Powerfull…”
Mr. Abishag…Brock. Do you realize how all this sounds?” Dr. Liftlander says.

“I don’t care how it sounds!!” Abishag roars, the old rage and power filling his veins once more and sending a shiver down Liftlander’s spine.

He smashes his fist onto the table, splitting it clean in half.

His mind was starting to clear.

Liftlander signals at the glass and soon four orderlies make their way into the room.

“Time for your medicine Mr. Abishag!” Dr. Liftlander says, “We will continue this tomorrow!”

The orderlies inject a further dose of experimental drug C-87 into Abishag’s arm and soon, he feels the anger lift and his mind begin to let go of the doubts of what was happening here…he again began to see things as they are.

His whole life had been a lie.

THIS was the truth.

There was no Blob.

There was no Order.

There was no Buzi and Abaddon.

He was alone.

He was insane.

…but he was getting better.

HOMESTEAD II

Abishag makes his way towards Little Raven Creek. This small running body of water ran about a kilometer behind his home and had a sloping river bank that was tricky to navigate but for the determined soul – of which there was just one in these parts – Himself…the fishing was excellent. A lot of Salmon used this creek to connect to larger bodies of water.

He sat down, opened up his Thermos and drank some more coffee.

A memory flashed in his mind for a brief moment – a memory of a breakfast where Abaddon had grown and roasted his own coffee beans. The resulting brew was horrid. The worst coffee he’d ever had…

It was just over an hour when Abishag heard the breaking of branches and the shuffling of the woods behind him.

Someone was coming.

Abishag, sitting in his lawn chair, turns his head and sees two figures emerge from the woods.

Bryce Collins, one of the locals Abishag met at the Toad River Lodge and had befriended speaks first, “Thought I might find you here…”

“Where else would I be at this time of the morning?” Abishag responds and stands up. He is dressed in a large lumberjack sweater and a pair of well-worn blue jeans.

“Who’s behind you?” Abishag says nodding to the figure in the woods.

“Fella says he knows you…says his name is Liflander…that ring any bells to you?”

Abishag drops his thermos.

Collins looks at the coffee emptying from the dropped thermos and then looks back at Abishag, “Guess it does ring a bell somewhere, don’t it?”

Liflander steps forward. He looked older now than when they last saw one another. The years had not been kind to the Doctor.

“Hello Brock”, the Doctor says quietly.

“Doc”, Abishag responds, “Been a long time….”

“It has. Yes it has”, Liflander says, shifting nervously and looking down at his shoes.

“Can’t imagine you come all the way out here to do some fishing, have you?” Abishag asks.

Liflander looks at Abishag and simply states, “Brock, we need to talk…”