'THE COLLECTOR'

John had great big waterproof boots on the shelves lining cool-room number four.

 

The boots were filled with feet and lower limbs,

each disconnected from their once-reluctant donors

with a saw.

 

On Sunday,

after church,

John cleaned and counted his collection,

making space to add new items he desired.

 

Monday,

John prepared his tools of action:

honing,

sterilizing

surgical equipment he required.

 

Tuesday

was for planning —

using spreadsheets, maps, and guides —

selecting targets, times, and routes.

Precise.

Complete.

 

Wednesday

was for practice —

dummy-runs with lifelike models —

to refine

Approach-Detach-Contain-Retreat.

 

Wednesday night

John’s sleep was intermittent:

fractured,

sliced,

and diced

by dreams of bungling, artlessness, and jail.

 

From 2:00am, 

despite the walk

to clear his mind of doubts ...

John’s restless spirit raged:

This time,

you’ll fail.

 

Thursday

was Engagement,

testing John’s strict preparations:

stealth and action.

Rapid.

Tidy.

By the book.

 

John required a head — 

a piece for cool-room number 10 — 

with balaclava 

(red) 

for texture, feel, and look.

 

John prowled the site selected,

through the day and half the night —

without success.

His groundwork had,

it seemed,

been wrong.

 

Around 11:30 in the PM something stirred:

a figure —

tall and proud

with features

square and strong.

 

The man possessed a briefcase and a brolly,

leather shoes,

and — best of all —

a top hat

fashioned of green felt.

 

Against his better judgment

(but with last night’s thoughts in mind)

John changed his goal,

arranged his tools,

and cinched his belt.

 

A shadow in the shadows,

John approached the fine head’s host,

with craft and cunning,

muted movement,

and

his

blade.

 

Advancing on his quarry,

John compressed his weapon’s haft,

exposed its edge,

and launched his skillful, slashing raid.

 

John lunged.

His victim bent to tie a bootlace.

John

attacked

clear air

and rolled across his prey’s kyphotic form.

 

The cobblestones arrested John’s impromptu glide and plunge,

as biting winds presaged

a fortune-shifting

storm.

 

Upon his back,

upon the street,

John stared upon the contours of the face

he had near-perfectly pursued.

 

Perhaps a mild concussion,

or the shock of his ineptness,

left John’s judgment and perception

frayed and skewed.

 

The visage of his quarry

lacked emotion, skin, and eyes.

Its voice, in contrast,

rang with color, depth, and grace.

 

Dear sir (exclaimed the man).

You must excuse my ill-timed action.

Take my hand.

I shall collect your fine, black case.

 

Unable to express assent, refusal, or excuse,

John held 

his ex-objective’s arm

and acquiesced.

 

The stranger guided John down paths,

through passageways and portals,

to a parlor,

grey and cool,

where John should rest.

 

A chesterfield absorbed the weight of John’s frail frame and mind,

amidst a mass of sculpted busts,

each lifelike; 

cold.

 

I see (began John’s host) despite the incident tonight

you apprehend my pieces’ value.

Come! Behold!

 

As if possessed,

unblinking,

John approached the partial statues.

None was carved or cast from bronze, or steel, or stone.

 

John recognised the flawless flesh’s lustre and fidelity.

Beyond mere art.

A hoard to match his own.

 

John staggered; grasped his head.

The other helped him to his chair,

to offer fortifying words and food and drink.

 

While John imbibed and ate,

his patron scrutinized and mused before announcing,

Sir — you are ...

my peer,

I think.

 

Judging by your countenance and style,

your taste and clothing,

I believe we’re both ...

collectors.

Am I right?

 

Now refreshed, alert, astute,

John sensed a threat and weighed his options:

obfuscate,

prevaricate,

or fight.

 

Thank you for your efforts (John announced).

I must depart.

Sincere apologies 

for burdening you so.

 

I beg you, sir, (beseeched John’s victim)

stay and share your knowledge.

We’re alike in many ways.

But …

this you know.

 

John paled as his companion set John’s bag upon his lap,

then introduced its twin 

and stroked the ebon pair.

 

I wonder (mused the man) if your valise,

perhaps like mine,

contains equipment for a …

singular affair.

 

John’s onetime victim paused above the latch of John’s fine case.

John sensed conceit behind his host’s abhorrent mask.

 

Pardon, sir (he said to John).

My interest disturbs you.

Take your bag.

Herewith, the tools of my main task.

 

With nimble, nearly tender moves,

the not-so-stranger opened his container

and revealed 

his shocking gear.

 

John’s inner workings, 

taut and paused,

resumed their functions — overtime —

as each familiar item fed his fear.

 

Chisel …

mallet …

saw blades —

each one handled with affection.

My obsession (said the other) — if you will.

 

Collectors — 

you and I

(the dreadful artisan continued).

Devotees of mass possession,

we consume.

 

We’re juggernauts of focused acquisition.

Never satisfied.

Admiring while aspiring.

Hence — this room.

 

His choices neatly narrowed by the turnabout events,

John sought escape 

and, finding none,

rethought his plan.

 

He knew his haughty host craved praise —

a weakness John abjured.

Advantaged thus,

John’s plot to thwart the man began.

 

Your instruments are crude (submitted John).

Your manner, coarse.

Your ... 

pieces ...

masterworks of unaccomplished dreck.

 

John’s nemesis stood, stunned.

John raised the nearest ‘sculpted’ head above his own

and tore its skin from skull and neck.

 

John threw the stark remains towards his captor’s fuming face,

then scoured the room 

for means 

to rout 

his fickle foe.

 

His insight fed by rage,

the man pre-empted John’s idea.

He grabbed a chisel

and attacked —

too rash;

too slow.

 

John dodged the wayward blow and set a hand upon his bag.

A tool descended on John’s outstretched arm apace.

 

The weapon’s wielder howled and drove his chisel home with force.

John turned and pulled.

The blade impaled

John’s crucial

case.

 

Pinned

and torn in two (by John’s retreat)

the bag proved empty.

John collapsed upon the chair.

The other crowed.

 

I have you (he exulted, drawing nearer).

Those fair features ...

JOHN ...

I’ve coveted.

Rare contours that ...

I’m owed.

 

The man removed his mask.

Abomination lay beneath:

the face of villainy;

a life of woes and wars.

 

Determined to retain his strained composure,

John sat back

and smiled.

You have my name (he said).

May I know yours?

 

The other donned a woollen head-and-neck piece, 

red:

a balaclava.

You may call me ... 

John.

We are ... 

akin.

 

Please sit.

I see confusion on your face.

To have your countenance thus furrowed

spoils the virtue of the skin.

 

John swept aside his shock and detestation

since, before him,

stood the proof his plan and practice

had been right.

 

Elated, 

John advanced towards his namesake,

who — possessing blade and chisel —

seemed convinced he’d won the night.

 

However, John was calmer;

his decisions less afflicted

by irrational emotion

and belief.

 

Unarmed, 

John turned his back and spread his arms,

inviting death.

The other laughed

and lunged —

with misconceived relief.

 

John stooped to tie his shoelace.

His assailant

slashed clear air ...

and rolled across his prey’s kyphotic form.

 

The polished floor arrested the attacker’s coup de grâce.

John

grabbed his knife

to turn

the shifting storm.

 

A chisel blocked his blow.

Two blades collided,

clashed,

and slashed

as

John

smote

John,

until one led

and claimed

the win.

 

Saturday,

John set a balaclava (red) upon the shelf,

its once-reluctant donor warm within.

 

John admired his haul —

his massed possessions; acquisitions —

then closed the door

and seized

a green felt hat.

 

As he turned from cool-room 10,

he gloved his hands

and donned a mask.

Tomorrow, church —

and that 

(said John) 

is that.