I entered the apartment, doing my best to hide my shock. I had never been in an Upper East Side penthouse before, and this was most certainly not what I had expected. The floor was covered in piles of trash, everything from old takeout containers to tattered books to half-melted plastic dolls. Besides the trash, the room was nearly empty except for a glass coffee table, upon which sat what looked like an ostrich egg painted gold, and a purple loveseat, nearly all of which was taken up by the fattest man I had ever seen.
I navigated slowly to him, stepping over dozens of dead and dying cockroaches, trying to ignore the overpowering stench of rot. ”It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Feurstein,” I said.
“Please, call me Horace. Have a seat.” He brushed a bunch of playbills and newspapers off the cushion next to him.
I squeezed in next to him, wondering what had happened to the once-renowned impresario, the producer who was behind some of the highest-grossing musicals in Broadway history. He had never been an attractive man, had always been overweight, with a face misshapen and deeply pitted from acne scars. But this was an entirely different beast next to me. Only about 5’8, he had ballooned to over 350 pounds. He appeared sickly, his face sallow, his stomach, which stuck out under his filthy shirt, was covered in a scabrous rash.
“Some food’s going to be delivered soon,” he said. “Ten orders of crab rangoon, 5 orders of fried dumplings, and three orders of boneless spareribs. Feel free to have some. You’re a top; you don’t have to watch what you eat. And don’t worry about me, I won’t eat until we are done. I’ve made sure I’m clean.”
“Thanks,” I said. I doubted that Horace had showered within the last month. This was not going to be a fun evening.
“Sorry for the mess,” he continued. He leaned in closer to me, his blubber rubbing up against my body, and put a sweaty arm over my shoulder. “I’m arthritic, and since my wife left me, there’s no one to help me out.”
“It’s fine.”
He laughed. “I saw that look you gave me when I mentioned my wife. I know what you’re thinking. She didn’t leave me because she found out what I did with guys like you. She knew. Sometimes she even joined in. She left because she didn’t want me to produce any more shows. Said it was a waste of money. That was all she cared about: my money. I truly thought she loved me. That was in early 2020. Right before everything shut down. Before, I could always go into a theater, and when the orchestra began the overture and the lights dimmed, be transported to a world far away, where my problems were non existent. But not anymore. I thought of throwing myself out of these windows hundreds of times.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing what else to say.
“It’s OK. It all led me here to this. This show, which could not happen without you, would not have happened without all that. This is going to be the biggest show of my career.”
I had my doubts about that, but just nodded. Horace had not produced a hit in almost 20 years. His recent shows, experimental plays, each one more incomprehensible than the last, were not received well by either audiences or critics and never ran for more than a few months. But none of that mattered to me. I just wanted a Broadway credit to my name.
“Let’s get down to business,” Horace said. “First, you know what I want from you in exchange for a role.”
I nodded. Wasn’t looking forward to it, but it was what it was.
“Great! Last week, I had another young guy who had no idea what I wanted. Conversation got super awkward. First thing’s first—payment. You are an Equity member, correct?”
“Yeah, got my card last year.”
“Then I’m required to pay you a minimum of $2,200/week. Unfortunately, I am not able to pay more than the union minimum, at least for now, but that is a pretty good rate for someone who only says one word in the entire show. Your contract is for 6 weeks, but if the show does well, and it will, that will be possibly extended. There’s no set closing date, and I expect it to go on for years. What do you say?”
“That’s amazing,” I said. “Truly is. Can’t thank you enough, I’ve dreamed of being on Broadway since I was a kid.”
“Easiest negotiation ever,” he said, laughing. “Now on to the play. I travelled to France in 2019. Brought back a lot of curious artifacts. Like that dragon egg on the coffee table.”
I laughed and he glared at me sternly. “That was not a joke. It is a genuine dragon egg, brought to Europe by a German expedition to Antarctica in the 1920s. Only a few known in existence. Before the last ice age, before the continents drifted, dragons were the lords of the skies, the firmament was their fiefdom”
“I see,” I said. Either this guy was playing a practical joke on me, or he was crazy. I suspected the latter.
“Brought a few other trinkets back.” He reached to the coffee table and picked up a large white fang. “This is from the Beast of Gévaudan, a werewolf that slaughtered hundreds of peasants in Southern France in the 1760s. And this,” he said, digging under some rubbish to retrieve an old book with a tan cover devoid of any title or decoration, “you will learn the meaning of shortly.
“However, the most valuable thing I brought back was a copy of the most extraordinary play. After reading the first scene I knew this was the work of a genius. I reached out and found that it had never been produced and the rights were available quite cheaply. I spent the last two years translating it, tweaking it, perfecting it. It is about an elderly charman, who is on trial, but no one—not the judge, not the jurors, not the attorneys, not the witnesses, not even the charman himself—knows what the crime is. Takes Kafka to a whole new level. A manciple will testify about the affairs of a monastery in the Carpathians, a donkey will testify to the price of wheat in the Ukraine, a—“
“Sorry to interrupt, but an actual donkey?”
“A donkey like Balaam’s. Isn’t it genius?”
“Most definitely!” I said, feigning excited. This play was going to be another of Horace’s flops. I would be surprised if it stayed open for a month.
“And the most genius part of it is the ending,” continued Horace. “Do you know what your one line is?”
“Nope,” I said, shaking my head.
“So close. The ending is something of my own invention. Usually, the original is far superior to the translation. But not for this play. The playwright’s genius did not lay in his trochees and iambs. He was not a poet, but a philosopher. His genius laid in his ideas, and I truly believe it was my destiny to find the manuscript, for only I could improve it. This will represent not just the pinnacle of my career, but the apotheosis of theatre itself. No work that was ever produced, or ever will be produced, can hold a candle to it. Back to the ending. In the original French, the defendant is tried by a panel of three judges. But I changed that to a jury of 12 men. You are juror number 7. The poor charman is found guilty, and the judge is polling the jurors. Asking if the verdict they rendered is correct. The first 6 jurors say yes, but you, you my dear friend, say no. And then the lights go out. ”
“Wow!” I said, trying to muster up enthusiasm. “Can’t wait to read it.”
“I must warn you that there are verses of untranslated French. It used to be that a theatre-goer could understand them, but, alas, times have changed. Anyways, enough about the show for now. Let’s have some fun. Can you take off your shirt please.”
I was not going to have fun, but I took off my shirt. He gasped.
“May I touch?”
I nodded, trying not to recoil as he ran his grimy hands over my chest, as he kneaded my shoulders with his filthy fingers, as he scratched my abs with his overgrown, yellow fingernails.
“How rare. A 7-pack. Seven, the number of completion. Four segments on the right, three on the left.”
“Yeah it’s just a quirk of genetics,” I said. “Nothing to do with my muscle composition. I’m like 7.5% body fat.”
“Was that obtained naturally?”
“Yeah, I’m natty. Don’t want to look like one of those overgrown, muscle-bound, roid-raging meat heads. That look’s disgusting.” My body was not natural. Natural attainable, yes, but not natural. Neither was anyone else’s in the industry. I did what I had to do to compete.
“I do not think I have ever seen a 7-pack before, how rare.”
“Well, you will soon see something that’s an 8,” I said, trying to do my best to flirt with this grotesque creature. “8.5 to be precise. And thick.”
Horace laughed. “That’s what they all say. Then it turns out to be a 5 or a 6. They even got fake rulers they sell. Don’t know why anyone would fool a poor old man like that.”
“Well, I guarantee you mine is legit.”
“We will see about that. But first you’re going to be the one using your mouth.”
“Wait…what? I thought—”
“Not like that,” he said, smiling. “Why do you think I reached out to your agent?”
“I have a pretty good idea.”
Hate to burst your bubble, but you aren’t the only twink with a nice body and face in this city. There are hundreds who are carbon copies of you.”
“A twink? I’m 6’3, 220. I think that falls into twunk territory.”
“Twink, twunk, otter, I have trouble keeping all the labels straight. But what attracted me, in addition to your pictures, and believe me, I saw them all, even subscribed to your OF, is your birthdate. 9/9/1999. Do you know what that means?”
“Uh…I’m a Virgo?”
He glared at me again. “You don’t understand and I’m not going to try to explain it to you. It takes a very high degree of intelligence to understand all of it. I’ll just say only someone like you can do what I require.”
He picked up the tan book from the coffee table. “The skin of the last witch executed in France, the Breton Marie Feval, was used to bind this tome. Her followers drained her blood for use as ink, gathered her bones to boil to glue. Her power is imbued in every page. Look closely at the front cover, and you can see an outline of her face.”
I looked closely, thinking the old man was imagining things, but I could make out the faint outline of a scowling old crone. Doubted it was legitimate though, probably painted on there by a bookseller to fool a gullible old man.
He opened the book about halfway and pointed to a block of text. “Can you read this for me, please.”
I looked. Illustrated on the page was the elongated figure of a woman, wearing a long black robe and a black witch’s hat, her face pearl white, juggling seven ivory balls in front of a desolate desert landscape, empty except for a round tower far off in the distance. Above her, in dark red, was written five lines of text in a language I could not identify. It was definitely not French.
“Uh, it’s not in English.”
“I know it’s not English,” he snapped. “I’m not an idiot. It’s in Breton, a Celtic language. I’m just asking you to read it, not translate it.”
“Oh, sorry,” I said. I did my best to read it.
“That will do,” he said. “You just ensured the play’s success. Now let’s have some fun.”
I hesitated. I did not think I could get with this repulsive man, no matter how much he was paying me.
“Look,” he said. “Most actors would die for this chance to perform on the Great White Way. You don’t know how much a Broadway credit will help your future career. It will ensure you will have no problem getting an audition. It’s a springboard to bigger roles.”
“I appreciate that. I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I can—”
“I have something that will help you perform back in my bathroom. I know I disgust you. I don’t blame you. I disgust myself. Have since I was a child. I didn’t grow up in the city. Was born in Erie, Pennsylvania. Working class, blue collar town, very Catholic. Not a nice place for someone like me. Got beat up at school and beat up at home. Ran away at 16 and ended up here. It was a gritty back then, like cities should be, not sanitized like today. Times Square, you can’t even imagine what it was like.
“I was 110 pounds back then, can you believe it? The scrawniest kid you’d ever seen. No matter how much I ate, I could never put on weight. Thought I’d make it big. But nope. I was short, had no muscle and an ugly face. Guys like you had modeling contracts, got roles even though they couldn’t act. When they were partying on Fire Island, I was begging on the streets. After a few months, I met an older gentleman, a historian of the theater at NYU, who recognized what I lacked in looks I made up for in intellect. He took me in, and I helped him with his research. Sadly, after a few years, he died.”
He glowered at me. “Do you know how he died, young man?”
I shook my head.
“How do you think he died, you blooming idiot? Those were the days when a silent specter haunted the city, The Sword of Damocles dangled over your neck. No one knew where it came from, no one knew what caused it, and no one knew who would be next. Can you imagine?”
“I can’t. I can’t begin to—”
“Damn well you can’t. You’re just a moron, that’s what you are. You young men have no respect for your elders. You have things like ‘no fats, no one over 30’ in your profiles. We endured horror beyond your comprehension. We fought for your rights. Without us, you’d be nothing. The least you could give us is a little gratitude. The least…”
I heard a cracking sound coming from somewhere. I hoped the floor wasn’t going to collapse from all the weight on it.
“…just a little love!” continued Horace, who was yelling hysterically now. “Is that too much to ask? Just a little? My ex-wife. Her name was Juana, she was an actress. From Cuba. Best actress ever. She got me convinced that she loved me. Not for my body, no. I’m smart enough that no one will ever love that. She told me she didn’t care about that, she was in love with my mind. But no. She was in love with my money. But I got the last laugh. I had…”
I heard another crack. Between that and the crazy old man, it was time to get out of here, Broadway contract be damned.
“I’m sorry, I’m going to leave,” I said, as Horace continued to ramble.
Before I could extricate myself, I heard another crack and saw the golden egg split in two. An amorphous red blob crawled out of it, about the size of a baseball. It rolled off the table and disappeared among the trash.
“You fool,” Horace shrieked at me. “You pronounced the spell wrong. Look what you have brought into the world.”
As I tried to get up, Horace grabbed my waist and attempted to hold me. Despite his immense size, he wasn’t strong. After a few seconds I managed to free myself. I scanned the room. The red blob was gone.
I made my way to the door, moving slowly so not to trip. Every few seconds I looked over my shoulder, making sure that neither Horace nor the red blob were after me. They weren’t.
When I was about halfway to the door, something sprung from the trash, landing a few feet in front of me. It was no longer the amorphous blob, but human-like in form. But it was no human. About three-feet tall, his skin was scarlet red. Eyes of pure yellow blazed, horns the color of ebony sprouted from his head. Instead of feet, he walked on hooves. It was no dragon’s egg that Horace bought, this was the devil himself or one of his spawn.
I threw a right hook to his head. My hand recoiled in pain, most likely broken. It was like I punched a wall. The monster did not seem to notice. I began backing up, the devil following me slowly. He was growing, and by the time our slow dance had reached the couch, he was towering over me. I looked over to Horace. He had either passed out from shock or was playing dead.
As I continued backing up towards the large windows, I searched the trash-strewn floor for a weapon. I picked up an old brass lamp. Hefty, probably weighed a good 15 pounds. Ignoring the pain in my right hand, I held it up like a baseball bat, as the demon, the devil, whatever it was, continued its slow approach. When it was a two feet away, I swung at its head. The blow would have felled, if not killed, any man, but the monster stopped only for perhaps half a second before reaching for the lamp, yanking it from my hands and snapping it in two.
I continued backing up. No escape, just the windows. A fall from the 70th floor would surely kill me, but that death would be less painful than what the devil had planned for me. But I wasn’t ready to give up. With my back against the window, I stood still as the devil approached me. He was now over ten feet tall, having to stoop to make his way through the room.
When he was nearly upon me, I sprang forward, attempting to dive under the reach of his arms. He nimbly bent down and lifted me up with one hand, slamming me up against the windows. His hands shifted to my neck. I attempted to pry them away. I punched, I kicked, I kneed, all to no effect. I felt myself start to feel faint. I was going to die soon.
I heard a knock at the door. “Delivery,” a voice cried.
I felt the devil’s hands loosen as it turned its neck to glance at the door. Just slightly, but enough for me to scream. The door flew upon.
“Help!” I cried, but the deliveryman just turned around and fled.
The devil turned his attention back to me, his eyes, his yellow eyes, just inches from mine as he throttled me once more.
An idea came to me. If it didn’t work, I was dead. I reached up and jabbed at his bright eyes. Unlike the rest of his body, they were soft. My fingernails weren’t long like Horace’s, but I jabbed with enough force that he squealed out and released his grip. I made a dash for the door, and soon after began hearing footsteps behind me. I didn’t look back, but kept sprinting to the door.
I made it as far as the couch.
He picked me up, lifted me to the ceiling, and threw me down on the coffee table. The glass shattered. I felt thousands of tiny pricks of pain as the shards embedded themselves in my back. The devil got down on his knees next to me and started to laugh, a demonic, otherworldly laugh. I saw row after row of razor sharp teeth. His mouth opened wider and wider, wide enough to devour me in a single gulp.
I tried to roll towards the door, a last-ditch attempt to escape the fate that awaited me, when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. A curved fang, Horace’s werewolf fang which I had completely forgotten about. I reached towards it and grasped it with my left hand. As the devil bent down, his monstrous maw fully open, I jabbed with it towards his neck. It pierced his hide like a knife through butter.
He stumbled backwards, gallons and gallons of black blood spurting from his thick neck. I got up, and slashed his stomach. He doubled over, grasping it, before collapsing on the floor. I walked over to him. He was not dead; I could hear his heart beating rapidly. I raised the fang and brought it down like a sacrificial knife. As the fang pierced his heart, he began to shrink. After a few minutes, he was the size of the red blob that had emerged from the golden egg. He kept getting smaller, the size of a pea, then the size of a grain of sand, until he finally vanished.
I looked at Horace, who had revived and was staring at me wide eyed.
“After that performance, I think I deserve a few more lines in your masterpiece, don’t you?”