In this story...from 'The Antikythera and The Source, my character The Source is in the world-ship of The Antikythera. She has just purchased a Red Button edition of Mark Twain's 'The Prince and The Pauper. If you press the 'Red Button', the story will not be the original, but include the reader, and his or her experiences, friends and more. She presses the red button...and as you will see, the Pauper is Angie...later in the story, the Prince is Theoclea, the famous Delphic Oracle of 500 BC, an early incarnation of The Source.
She presses the red button.
Changin’ Places’, she read…the title was different…it wasn’t ‘The Prince and The Pauper’…it was ‘Changin’
Places!’. The style was somewhat like Twain’s, but with a twist…a strangeness. The Prince and The Pauper took place in England during a certain time period. Could the red button be malfunctioning? She turned the chapter one and continued.
Chapter One…Angie
The stops along the Suburban Regional Rail line that weaves its metal and wood track into and out of Philadelphia are well known to commuters who work and study in Philadelphia, but prefer to live outside the city. The names, Bryn Mawr, Narberth, Ardmore, Haverford, Strafford, Devon and Paoli all conjure up visions of stately mansions, fine schools and colleges, old money, and the new or renovated mansions of the nouveau riche crowd. Green stately parks and golf courses dot the landscape.
Occasionally an intrepid wanderer travels to the netherworlds toward the end of the line—Exton, Downingtown, and finally Thorndale. But there is one town whose name is only mentioned in hushed tones in dark halls where 33 ball pool is played, and one hears the music of the Regretful Dread. The town is called Malville, a stop on the line that's hidden between Paoli and Exton. It's been said that many who have gotten off the train in Malville have never been seen or heard from again. Many have gotten on the train there and have vowed never to return. Malville has been dropped off the map, and only the oldest maps show the town as it was in better days.
It's the year 2047 and the return of the steam engine and steam technology has benefitted towns beyond the line—notably Coatesville. But aside from the steam engine on the train that belches black smoke as it approaches Malville, the town has continued its way downward. It's often compared to Tombstone, Arizona in the 1880’s, the scene of the gunfight at the OK Corral… or Dante’s city of Dis, mentioned in The Inferno. Whereas the other towns along the Main Line are known for their history, notably sites of battles and intrigues of the Revolutionary or Civil Wars, the town in our story is known for its’ replica of the French Guillotine placed in front of City Hall. Even the Pilgrims who founded Malville back in the 1700’s eventually left, finding that the water from the river was distasteful, and already full of excrement. Intoxicated drunks often staggered out of town babbling obscenities about the foul-smelling air.
Angie sat quietly on a metal bench in the train station. She was in Malville. She noted the time on her mobile phone. The train was late, it was always late. The station wasn’t open any more. Cutbacks. There were no porta-potties at the station, and no restrooms on the train. More cutbacks. She had used the restroom at the Coco store, near the station. It smelled of stale vomit.
‘What the FUCK...Malville’...she thought... ‘what an apt name...they might as well have called it Disville...in honor of Dante.’ She wore her black bowler hat decorated with skeletons, gears and clockwork parts, and other bits and pieces that fit into her ethos. She had a somewhat revealing leather jacket on—piercings, tattoos, a black leather miniskirt, a corset, black stockings, and other fashionable accoutrements completed her ‘look’. It was hot, so she took off the hat. Her shiny black hair was cut in a way that suggested a crown of black sabre-toothed tiger’s teeth. Lately she had been having the recurrent dream again, a dark nightmare of being someone important in ancient Greece, someone who looked just like her, some kind of an Oracle named Theoclea.
Behind her she noted that a car was pulling up...she could smell the exhaust fumes. There was a trace of Ethylene. Only a few cars had electric or steam motors in Malville...and this wasn’t one of them. A radio blared, some talk show. She heard the words “Lord protect us from Health Care...” Then the car was turned off and the radio stopped blaring.
A man opened the driver’s side door, and got out of the car. He put a sticker on the windshield. He was tall, dressed in black and wore a black parson’s hat and sunglasses. The sticker said ‘Clergy’...he could park wherever he wanted to. The station smelled of stale pee. ‘His ‘Lord’ was probably against peeing’, she thought. ‘Okay Angie, pull yourself together’. The man sat down on the bench next to her. Her hand reached into her pocket. She looked over and recognized him, he looked a little like the actor in ‘The Night of the Hunter’—Robert Mitchum. It was early August, and the metal bench wasn’t in the shade, of course.
“Lord knows...I wonder why they didn’t put this bench in the shade,” he said, as he moved nearer to her. His hand touched her thigh, moving back and forth.
“Fuck off!” she shouted, staring directly into his bloodshot eyes. “You stink, just like this station, and this whole fuckin’ town.” She got up, turned her back on him, and walked away. She heard a whistle, the train was coming. She walked over to the platform. Suddenly, she heard something behind her and felt his hand on her shoulder.
“Trains can be very dangerous, young lady, especially if you fall on the tracks,” he said as his grip tightened. She turned, pulled the knife, clicked it, lunged forward, and stabbed him three times. Then, Angie pushed him away, and with a roundhouse kick, sent him reeling. He shrieked, and fell backwards, lost his balance and fell on the tracks in front of the oncoming train. The brakes screeched. It was too late. ‘That’s what happens when the fuckin’ trains are late, and there’s more and more…cutbacks.’ she thought as she stared at his blood-spattered body on the tracks. She turned on her ear piercings, and pulled up Janis Joplin singing ‘Bobby McGee’. She looked up at the swinging station sign- MALVILLE.
“Busted flat in Baton Rouge.
waitin’ fer a train,
feelin’ near as
faded as my jeans...”
***
She presses the red button.
Changin’ Places’, she read…the title was different…it wasn’t ‘The Prince and The Pauper’…it was ‘Changin’
Places!’. The style was somewhat like Twain’s, but with a twist…a strangeness. The Prince and The Pauper took place in England during a certain time period. Could the red button be malfunctioning? She turned the chapter one and continued.
Chapter One…Angie
The stops along the Suburban Regional Rail line that weaves its metal and wood track into and out of Philadelphia are well known to commuters who work and study in Philadelphia, but prefer to live outside the city. The names, Bryn Mawr, Narberth, Ardmore, Haverford, Strafford, Devon and Paoli all conjure up visions of stately mansions, fine schools and colleges, old money, and the new or renovated mansions of the nouveau riche crowd. Green stately parks and golf courses dot the landscape.
Occasionally an intrepid wanderer travels to the netherworlds toward the end of the line—Exton, Downingtown, and finally Thorndale. But there is one town whose name is only mentioned in hushed tones in dark halls where 33 ball pool is played, and one hears the music of the Regretful Dread. The town is called Malville, a stop on the line that's hidden between Paoli and Exton. It's been said that many who have gotten off the train in Malville have never been seen or heard from again. Many have gotten on the train there and have vowed never to return. Malville has been dropped off the map, and only the oldest maps show the town as it was in better days.
It's the year 2047 and the return of the steam engine and steam technology has benefitted towns beyond the line—notably Coatesville. But aside from the steam engine on the train that belches black smoke as it approaches Malville, the town has continued its way downward. It's often compared to Tombstone, Arizona in the 1880’s, the scene of the gunfight at the OK Corral… or Dante’s city of Dis, mentioned in The Inferno. Whereas the other towns along the Main Line are known for their history, notably sites of battles and intrigues of the Revolutionary or Civil Wars, the town in our story is known for its’ replica of the French Guillotine placed in front of City Hall. Even the Pilgrims who founded Malville back in the 1700’s eventually left, finding that the water from the river was distasteful, and already full of excrement. Intoxicated drunks often staggered out of town babbling obscenities about the foul-smelling air.
Angie sat quietly on a metal bench in the train station. She was in Malville. She noted the time on her mobile phone. The train was late, it was always late. The station wasn’t open any more. Cutbacks. There were no porta-potties at the station, and no restrooms on the train. More cutbacks. She had used the restroom at the Coco store, near the station. It smelled of stale vomit.
‘What the FUCK...Malville’...she thought... ‘what an apt name...they might as well have called it Disville...in honor of Dante.’ She wore her black bowler hat decorated with skeletons, gears and clockwork parts, and other bits and pieces that fit into her ethos. She had a somewhat revealing leather jacket on—piercings, tattoos, a black leather miniskirt, a corset, black stockings, and other fashionable accoutrements completed her ‘look’. It was hot, so she took off the hat. Her shiny black hair was cut in a way that suggested a crown of black sabre-toothed tiger’s teeth. Lately she had been having the recurrent dream again, a dark nightmare of being someone important in ancient Greece, someone who looked just like her, some kind of an Oracle named Theoclea.
Behind her she noted that a car was pulling up...she could smell the exhaust fumes. There was a trace of Ethylene. Only a few cars had electric or steam motors in Malville...and this wasn’t one of them. A radio blared, some talk show. She heard the words “Lord protect us from Health Care...” Then the car was turned off and the radio stopped blaring.
A man opened the driver’s side door, and got out of the car. He put a sticker on the windshield. He was tall, dressed in black and wore a black parson’s hat and sunglasses. The sticker said ‘Clergy’...he could park wherever he wanted to. The station smelled of stale pee. ‘His ‘Lord’ was probably against peeing’, she thought. ‘Okay Angie, pull yourself together’. The man sat down on the bench next to her. Her hand reached into her pocket. She looked over and recognized him, he looked a little like the actor in ‘The Night of the Hunter’—Robert Mitchum. It was early August, and the metal bench wasn’t in the shade, of course.
“Lord knows...I wonder why they didn’t put this bench in the shade,” he said, as he moved nearer to her. His hand touched her thigh, moving back and forth.
“Fuck off!” she shouted, staring directly into his bloodshot eyes. “You stink, just like this station, and this whole fuckin’ town.” She got up, turned her back on him, and walked away. She heard a whistle, the train was coming. She walked over to the platform. Suddenly, she heard something behind her and felt his hand on her shoulder.
“Trains can be very dangerous, young lady, especially if you fall on the tracks,” he said as his grip tightened. She turned, pulled the knife, clicked it, lunged forward, and stabbed him three times. Then, Angie pushed him away, and with a roundhouse kick, sent him reeling. He shrieked, and fell backwards, lost his balance and fell on the tracks in front of the oncoming train. The brakes screeched. It was too late. ‘That’s what happens when the fuckin’ trains are late, and there’s more and more…cutbacks.’ she thought as she stared at his blood-spattered body on the tracks. She turned on her ear piercings, and pulled up Janis Joplin singing ‘Bobby McGee’. She looked up at the swinging station sign- MALVILLE.
“Busted flat in Baton Rouge.
waitin’ fer a train,
feelin’ near as
faded as my jeans...”
***