Bad to Worse

  BAD TO WORSE

  Acclaim for Bad to Worse

  ‘Satan circles and eternal triangles endlessly intriguing.’ Euclid

  ‘Most compelling description of Hell I have read.’ Dante Alighieri

  ‘Loved the pendulum motif.’ Galileo

  ‘A new, new testament for humankind. A holy book.’ St Ignorius

  ‘Literature reimagined … may prove to be history’s fabled End-Novel.’ S Vestry

  ‘Ceci n’est pas un roman.’ R Magritte

  ‘Irresistibly draws us to rational, moral, and heroic life choices.’ F Godwilling

  ‘Simultaneity in climax appears achievable.’ A Einstein

  To Three Children

  O LORD.

  I am lost in my enemy’s forest.

  His quarrel darkens to the Counting Owl

  winding the curse of his father’s ruin.

  Now a shadow lengthens upon me.

  MY SON.

  Listen to the thriced.

  Then is deliverance yours, the Owl become

  gracious, the tyrant stopped in his shadow

  and the infidel turned, if from bad to worse.

  Leonardo di Boccardo

  Conversaziones e Silenzio

  FOREWORD

  Before you lies a book of truths, and I start with a very peculiar one: I do not know the author of this work. Not even his or her name.

  From internal evidence of an emotional intelligence and refinement of sensibilities that could hardly be masculine, I thought at first the author to be a woman. However, based on textual and stylistic similarities to another work entitled The Weaver Fish, and the crass transparency of attempted subterfuge, I now incline to believe this is the writing of A B C Darian in masquerade as an anonymous recluse.

  Whatever the case, by some entwinement of circumstances beyond my understanding and a natural ineptitude for tactical avoidance, I find myself in multiple roles as that person’s literary agent, power of attorney, editorial correspondent, and briefly his nom de plume. Even more onerously, the responsibility has fallen on me to excite in total strangers, by means of my following remarks, a compulsion to continue reading until the last veracious full stop.

  How should I do that? At least I have prepared conscientiously, by reading the manuscript five times. Forward quickly, forward slowly, once aloud, once backwards, and once upside down (a convent skill, never explained). Five times I entered his dissenting universe, where every fact seems fallibly familiar and every falsehood impossibly erased. Only once before has this reviewer’s frocked composure been so tested by the reasoned sensual. (When Monsignor Papaduomo visited our Order to speak on ‘Constructs of Celibacy’, and remained at the abbey as tutor-in-residence.)

  If, like me, you prefer to know what a book is about before committing to read it, I shall tell immediately. This is the account of a century-long vendetta; true, tragic, and so transcendent in its special evil that the Inferno itself was visited on a small frontier town in America. It is a record of generational human misfortune and ambiguous redemption, unequalled for malice and tenacity in the whole miserable world history of feuding families.

  But it is so much more. Informative asides are unexpectedly grammatical, or arithmetical, sometime crustacean, sometime chemical, aeronautical, oceanic, theological, or ambivalently poetic.

  I give examples: Here, in a discreet footnote to an unexceptional endnote in a commonplace appendix, you are confided the identity of the Supreme Being … Learn the true number of the Trinity … Expose Luciferans secreted in your family … Why is the Circular Sea so shaped? … Know what crabs think upside down in z-bends … Who first thought of zero? … What are Satroit’s tenses? … Break out of the Couplet Prison using only the power of thought … Why is the Inferno hot? … Where will you find a Secret Chord? … What is Theta Collapse? … How do waitpersons vanish? … Return from the dead …

  Yet all the time we are never distant from the sickening criminality of the beautiful Regan Mortiss, her executive killer known as Glimpse the prospector, and a witless half brother codenamed Haberdash. Nor, we can be thankful, are we far from the moral certitude and discerning ruthlessness of Richard Worse, opposing them.

  Every modern chronicler of Ferende history, Dr Darian included, has observed that nothing should surprise us about that country. Even so, I was intrigued by the geological marvel of volcanic josephites. Nor could I anticipate the terrifying events that unfold deep inside the Medallion Caves. Or the astounding scientific and anthropological findings concerning Rep’huselans, the presumed Neolithic ancestors of today’s Ferendese, who left their people’s likeness memorialized in sacred caverns unknown to posterity until now.

  I am aware that anglophone readers, and Westerners generally, lack a familiarity with the Ferendes that historically they enjoy with Singapore, say, or Hong Kong. There are many reasons for this, not the least being revolutionary tumult that has regularly punctuated the sham tranquillity of civic repression. Nor, geopolitically, does that nation sit restfully on earth, being centred as it is in the South China Sea over inestimable hydrocarbon prospects openly coveted by a rapacious, expansionist and militarist near neighbour.

  Nevertheless, I feel I have done my homework here as well. Earlier this year I visited the parish of St Alonzo’s in Madregalo where, in my capacity as a former abbess, I was invited to address their deconsecration working party. This was an opportunity to learn more about Ferende culture, meet with theologians, and venture far into the suburbs to hear about ordinary life under their new and mysterious monarch, Prince Arnaba.

  Of course, for the academically curious, the main excitement out of the Ferendes is not to do with the Shuffler, or liquid-core geodes, or Stone Age roadworks. It is about language. And the world’s foremost authority on birdsong linguistics, Nicholas Misgivingston, happens to base his swint field studies at the Cambridge-administered Language Diversity Initiative research station in that country’s remote Joseph Plateau. In this volume, you will find the latest science expertly summarized, along with informal reflections by Dr Misgivingston and unpublished conjectures about the swint’s thricing behaviour, multilingualism and capacity to count.

  All this, I know, would be enough to draw you in; but wait! For those with the courage to embark, there is offered a chaperoned journey through the underworld in the company of American poet Monica Moreish. Hailed the Dante of our era, her acutely observed travelogue rendered in elegant cantos has enabled our own author to provide in the present work a modernized, practical and English cartography of Hell, highlighting previously unknown dangers and recommending realistic strategies for escape.

  You have opened your personal book of change; now it dares you into destiny. But be warned: This work contains implicit language. (And some explicit.) It is safely read and internalized only by the sound in mind and pure of soul. If you are one amongst those, perhaps with ambitions to outwit Satan and even aspirations to immortality, take seriously our nameless author’s prescription, which is to study probability and the geometry of circles. Also, do as I have: read his book five times.

  Magdalena Letterby

  Foreword

  1 Twicing Bread

  2 Station BWRD (Transcript)

  3 Anna Camenes to Richard Worse

  4 Richard Worse to Thomas Worse (1)

  5 Area Pi

  6 Anna to Edvard Tøssentern

  7 The Circular Sea

  8 Nicholas Misgivingston to Richard Worse

  9 Richard Worse to Thomas Worse (2)

  10 Regan Mortiss

  11 Glimpse

  12 Nusero’s Map

  13 The Intuition Reminder

  14 Friday Latest

  15 Monsignor Papaduomo

  16 Camelline Shipping


  17 Mockingbird

  18 Haberdash

  19 High Rollers

  20 Core Temperature

  21 Returns Policy

  22 English in Perth

  23 Volcano Street

  24 Simile of the Cave

  25 Latent Image

  26 Amicus Curiae

  27 Incident at Bakehouse

  28 Back at the BHEH

  29 Virgil in the Underworld

  30 In Articulo Mortiss

  31 Mr Wotsan

  Appendix A. Advanced Commentary, Sources, and Reader Exercises

  Appendix B. Where to Look for Unicorns

  Appendix C. Evading Tax in the Underworld

  Appendix D. Spiritual Purity Self-test

  Dedication to the Players

  Index of First and Final Mentions 290

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Warning to the Reader

  1 TWICING BREAD

  DANTE, ARIZONA. 1877

  Keff leaned forward, squinting to read, one hand combing his horse’s mane.

  ‘Tom Worse, Baker. All ya k-neads met. What’s k-neads mean, Rigo?’

  ‘Jesus, Keff, ya dope, it says needs, spelled wrong. Smells good. Get’s a loaf.’

  Keff stayed mounted, slightly standing in the stirrups as he called loudly, ‘Baker!’

  A man stepped from the shadowed interior; he was wearing a blue-white striped long apron and a black bandanna scarf. He picked flour from his hands as he spoke. ‘The name’s Worse.’

  ‘Hey Rigo. He dressed like a butcher. You wanna meat loaf? Could be worse.’

  Keff folded over in mirth, recovering just enough to demand, ‘Get the man a loaf, and I mean bread, mister.’

  Worse looked at Keff unresponsively, then at Rigo, who returned a cold stare.

  ‘I was a butcher once,’ said Worse. ‘Miss it, somehow. Miss the blood.’

  Rigo’s expression didn’t change. ‘What side was you, baker? Where was you butcherin’?’

  ‘What’s that to you? War’s long gone.’

  ‘Shut your mouth, baker. No one answers back to Mr Rigo.’

  Keff’s flare of temper made him tense in the saddle. His horse felt it, moving sideways nervously. Worse read the animal, and the rider, and ignored them.

  ‘Side of principle, where I could find it. Butchering mongrels, where I could find them. Service of humanity generally.’

  Worse glanced at Keff, then back to Rigo. ‘Reckon I missed some.’

  Their gaze was locked for a few seconds, interrupted by Keff.

  ‘Mister, folks die from passing insults. You wanna die in a fleck of a town called Dant?’

  ‘Dant-tay, Keff,’ Rigo shot at him irritably.

  ‘Like the Inferno, Keff. That’s where the Host gets baked.’

  Worse turned back into the shadows, re-emerging with a wrapped loaf. He approached Rigo on the side away from Keff, and passed him the bread.

  ‘I call this loaf a twicing. Enough for you both. That’ll be a dollar.’

  Rigo took the bread and looked at Keff, as if to an interpreter.

  ‘Baker, nobody pays a dollar a loaf. And Mr Rigo, he don’t pay nothing. You know who Mr Rigo is? Hey, baker?’

  ‘I know. He’s a Mortiss brother. I’ve seen a reward poster. Only, up close he’s even uglier than an artist can draw without dying. That’s a half-dollar for the bread, half for delivery. No credit.’

  Keff stared at Worse, shocked. Then, deciding they were dealing with a simpleton, he began to laugh again. Worse was looking steadily at Rigo, who pulled sharply on a strap, causing his horse to round on Worse, snorting loudly. Worse didn’t recoil, instead reaching up and stroking the mare’s face, speaking softly. In return, the horse nuzzled, but Rigo pulled her away with the left rein.

  ‘So that’s a dollar, or the bread returned, or I’ll take the horse in lieu, if that’s your preference.’

  ‘Go to hell, baker.’ Rigo tore at the bread with rotten teeth, and spat a mouthful towards Worse.

  ‘That doesn’t qualify as returned. Now it’s a dollar or the horse,’ said Worse.

  Rigo placed the loaf against the horn of his saddle, freeing his hand to hover above a right gun holster.

  ‘Now, mister. I’ve killed better men for lesser talk. You get back to the kitchen, you hear me? I’ll take the bread by way of apology.’

  ‘I’ll take the dollar by way of payment.’

  Rigo straightened in his saddle.

  ‘There’s another payment I like to make, baker. I call it a bullet.’

  Worse reached up to stroke the mare.

  ‘No way that would cover expenses. I’d need to take the beltfull, in fairness.’

  Keff required time to take in Worse’s response, then burst into laughter. He was silenced by a glare from Rigo, and quickly recovered his role.

  ‘Baker, no one talks back smart to Mr Rigo. You upset Mr Rigo, you upset the brothers. And the Mortiss brothers, baker, they don’t forgive and they don’t forget. You got family, baker?’

  Worse ignored him, whispering horse words to the mare but looking at Rigo, who was the first to break the silence.

  ‘Know what I think, baker? We’re gonna turn our beasts and ride away, with the bread, with the dollar, with the horse, and less one bullet if you raise objection.’

  ‘And here’s what I think,’ said Worse. ‘You turn away, get yourselves shot as thieving mongrels. I take the dollar, the horse and the cartridge belt for my trouble. You get the bread and a pauper’s burial, and the town benevolent fund has the leftovers.’

  ‘You telling me you shoot customers? That ain’t good business.’

  Rigo’s eyes were darting around the shopfront, assessing his risk, checking for witnesses.

  ‘I’m selective, obviously. Just uncivil folk like yourselves, to keep up the bakehouse tone. And discouraging non-payers makes sense because it cuts losses and simplifies bookkeeping, which is definitely good business. Plus it’s effective deterrence. Plus it eliminates reoffenders. Whole of Dante knows. You should have come inside and read the conditions of purchase. Pay or die, in summary.’

  ‘Fuck you, baker,’ said Keff. ‘Kill him, Rigo.’

  ‘Think I might just do that,’ said Rigo slowly, eyes now fixed on Worse. He backed his horse up a few paces, testing the situation. It offered Worse a clearer view of Keff, but he spoke to Rigo.

  ‘Your mare’s uneven shod on the right foreleg. Be tender before long.’

  ‘You saying you’re a farrier now, baker?’ Keff’s tone was mocking.

  Worse answered without looking at him. ‘I keep a forge alight, out back. All part of Dante’s inferno services. Just don’t try raising a gallop, or she’ll fall lame.’

  ‘You mind your bad mouth over my mount, mister,’ said Rigo. Worse wrung his hands again, wiping flour onto the apron, at the same time loosening the tie at his waist.

  ‘That’ll now be two dollars, accounting for the delay and inconvenience, the expert veterinarian opinion, and the cost of conversation with the dimwitted across there.’

  Keff looked stunned. Rigo continued staring, weighing up Worse. Eventually Keff found his place.

  ‘You got a big mouth for a baker, mister. Kill him, Rigo.’

  ‘I’m saying to you, baker, you make your peace real quick with the Lord, as there ain’t no preacher hereabouts gonna help you along with a prayer of the departed,’ said Rigo.

  As if feeling the heat, Worse reached up to loosen his neck scarf, flicking it to the ground. Underneath was an ecclesiastical collar.

  ‘Preacher says the baker’s pure and deserving of Heaven. The Lord tells the preacher two sinners on horseback will appear, each impossibly more stupid than the other, riding to the Inferno. The Lord wants only the horses spared. He’s very particular: only the horses.’

  Rigo and Keff stared at Worse.

  ‘That’ll be four dollars, being just two extra for the words of the Almighty.’

&
nbsp; Rigo and Keff were silent.

  Worse rubbed his hands together, then clapped, creating a small cloud of flour dust. ‘There’s something you may not know about flour.’

  Rigo’s right hand now rested within a fist length of his revolver. ‘And what might that be, preacher?’

  ‘Well, with all the understandable God-fearing nervousness and such, the shakes, the sweating and the like, it gives a better pistol grip on that lady-type pearl inlay you’ve got there.’

  As he spoke, he casually pulled the apron sling forward over his head. ‘I’d dust up my right hand, if I were you.’

  Rigo’s gun hand flinched slightly, and he moved it forward to rest on his thigh. Worse knew that he was drying his palm.

  ‘You got a big mouth for a baker, mister. Kill him, Rigo.’

  ‘You hear that, preacher? My friend here, who’s a believin’ man, finds the evil in your words deservin’ of being shot, and I have to agree with him. Now you commune your last time with the Maker because from where I’m sitting I see two guns against the meek pickings of flour dough.’

  Worse raised both hands in a sign of benediction.

  ‘Behold the power of two. Now hear what the Lord says of sinners: In number is damnation, for the multiplicity expandeth wrong in the same measure it divideth good.’

  ‘Kill him, Rigo.’

  ‘Then for each among the many, his days to Judgement will become hours, even as the hours of his perdition will be made days.’

  ‘You got a big mouth for a baker, mister. Kill him, Rigo.’

  ‘Well, preacher, the way I see it we still have the power of two guns against the God-speaking, hand-wringing impotence of one pastry-baking mortal,’ said Rigo.

  ‘Hear again the lot of sinners: The weakness of one will ever surpasseth the strength of another, wherefore the power of two bringeth the downfall of both.’

  ‘Kill him, Rigo.’

  But Rigo had been thinking. His face turned even uglier as he smiled. ‘We don’t need to do that, Keff. We’re too smart to be wasted on the labours of killin’. Better we just get the law to help out with an official town hanging, courtesy of the local justice.’ Rigo lifted up the bread, displaying the missing bite. ‘What have we got? We was sold a defective product; extortion, threatening behaviour, impersonating a man of the cloth, talk of horse stealing. What’s the sheriff gonna say to all that?’