Page 233 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1

awareness. It dressed in the scales of a monstrous snake,
each one smooth as polished glass, shaped for the purpose
of killing. There was the slightest intimation of identity. The
thing was old and sharp, like a knife left to rust in a hidden
place, ever dreaming of ripe tender flesh for the cutting.
There was a size to the thing, too. It unfurled to the very
borders of my understanding, and likely beyond them. It was
a leviathan asleep on the floor of my mind, waiting. With the
curiosity of a child, I made to poke the thing. I wanted to see
it move.
Before I could rouse the sleeping giant, the world broke
in on me, and my eyes were made to open. I was immobile,
cold, and confronted by a lean shadow. “And so it rises.
Hello, Family Man. Welcome to your last stop on the journey
of life. I hope you like it.”
It was the voice of the thin man, filled with a familiar
confidence—a confidence that I was growing rather
accustomed at dispelling. Before I responded, I took a
moment to absorb my surroundings, which were initially
rather spectacular. From all appearances, I was in a
monstrous, ancient castle. Yet when I looked more closely,
my accommodations were revealed to be nothing more than
a replica, horribly overdone with thick and clumsy flourishes
of the medieval and gothic, making the place appear more
caricature than castle.
I could see my captor growing impatient with my silence,
so I spoke. “Thin Man, I have not enjoyed your disrespect
for me and mine. This will not go well for you, but please
tell me how you think things will end before I show you how
they actually do.”
“You’re a mouthy cuss, aren’t you?” replied the thin man.
“Well, you’re draped in about two hundred pounds of steel
chain, and the Red Dream seems to have faded between us,
so I’m fairly sure you’re not going anywhere.”

236 | Mark Anzalone