The Right Snuff

“Welcome, friends!”

Max’s shrill voice rings over the ballroom aboard his zeppelin. Gathered before him were the denizens of Arkham that Max calls his mayoral support base. This collective hive of scum and villainy might have be received as honored guests at the *redacted*land and its Generalissimo.

Anywhere else and you’d expect them to be plotting Captain Planet’s death.

Making up this suspicious gathering are a few folks of note.

The Marsh Family representatives, who lurked near the back of the room, were haunting the banquet tables like ravenous sharks. Max was relieved that the twins had sent ambassadors rather than testing the weight limits of his dirigible. Their small congregation exchanged strange words in wet, salty voices that reminded one of the ocean.

On the other side of the ballroom lurks a decrepit looking figure draped in an ancient black cloak; a heavy hood enveloping his face in dark shadows. A long, ash grey beard pours out of the hood, the only evidence that something exists in the black void. A pale, claw-like hands clutch a staff from which several skulls dangle like demented Christmas ornaments from a desiccated tree.

At last, gathered near the stage was a small cluster of strange looking men with gaunt, sickly faces. They fit poorly into their suits, suggestions of lumps and additional appendages threatening to spill out should the stitching break away. They move together, like some kind of hive mind, gurgling meaningless conversations with each other like puppets trying to appear human.

“It seems to me we have everyone here to kick off his shindig..” Max mutters, narrowing his eyes as he scans his foul collection of guests. “... wait, where’s my guest of honor?”

Craning his neck around the room, Kael strains to see if his target is mingling amongst the crowd.

“Well, if the hors d’oeuvres are any indication, I'm wasting my time here,” a booming baritone carries from a banquet table.

It's him.

And really, he makes it hard not to notice him. An almost caricaturist portrayal of a man's man, all business in his suit, all alcohol in his brain. It's been a rough month at the office, indicated by the not-so-perfect knot in his red tie. Typically, Hudson is the star of every room he walks into. Here, surrounded by… well, what he could only describe as ‘cretins,’ he felt lost. A square jaw in a sea of gelatinous soy boys. A billionaire, who frankly, would rather be golfing than be here.

But Daniel Green had asked him to take this meeting. “Max is… psychotic,” Daniel had said. “But, that doesn’t mean his offer isn't lucrative.”

If his son, Hugo, had said it, Hugo would've received a firm, “I'll consider it,” and this meeting would never have happened. But Daniel said it. And Daniel's word, until now, had meant more to Hudson — carried more weight.

Though he is beginning to reconsider that, given the circumstances.

“There you are, Mister Hud-Son Vale, excellent.” Max hisses excitedly, sliding down off the stage. He moves fluidly, oozing wretched charm from every pore as he glides toward his target.

Approaching Hudson, his eyes flash wide, his pupils dilating as they lock on Hudson, “My apologies, I’m sure we can get you any kind of whore you need though I’m not familiar with Whore Derves, sounds French, is it French? My man, Snark Darkly, will get you a French Whore right away.”

Hudson stares at Max, sizing him up. Then, a smile cracks across his stone visage.

“Aha! A-haha! Oh, that's good,” Hudson says, as though a whore pun is exactly the medicine he needs at this hour. “Well done.”

He grasps Max's hand and gives it a firm shake. Max's squeeze indicates a strength he did not perceive in him initially.

A good sign.

The Mayoral hopeful shakes Hudson’s hand enthusiastically, a growling giggle joining the elder Vale’s laughter. Once Hudson relinquishes Max’s hand the Lord of Kaelsalvania snaps his fingers calling into duty his trusted the Herald. Dressed in a new black and red herald tunic with too many tassels and a fair number of small bells, the Herald skitters into frame.

“Do you need a drink? My the Herald can fetch you something?”

Hudson looks Bentley over. Everything is judgment, and business is everything.

“Well, if you insist — Harold, how about you fetch me the finest bottle of wine that Mr. Kael is willing to part ways with?” He tosses a wink Kael's way, as if Kael were any other businessman.

Max’s face blanks for a moment as Hudson mentions wine. He does have a particularly fine bottle of wine onboard but....

Clearing his throat as his smile faltering, he turns to the Herald.

“Fetch the Chateau Petrus 2015.”

“... but you bought that for Cecilw-”

Max smashes his heel into the marble ballroom floor creating a surprisingly loud CRACK. “FETCH!”

The Herald scrambles away, disappearing through a nearby door. The smile cracks into a sneer before Kael turns back to Hudson, wiping away the awkward moment.

“Plebeians, am I right?”

Lots of thoughts coursed through Hudson's mind. Judgments galore. Max was authoritative, responsive, and given the bottle — an expensive bottle, he intended as a gift for someone else no less — rather generous, at least in the moment. Further, he caught the sneer. No nonsense when it comes to demands. It seems that despite his bevy of eccentricities, Max is a man Hudson could see himself working with.

But all of that judgment coalesced into a single word of agreement.

“Right.”

“Now I’ve had the good fortune of working with your son, Hugo, and his associate, Daniel Green, for a few months now. Good, reliable boys who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty, I can appreciate that. Hugo made mention that you’re a man who likes reliable money and a good deal.”

Max picks up his pace, pulling ahead of Hudson as he climbs back up onto the stage, spinning to address the room.

“You’re all here because you’ve helped my mayoral campaign or, more importantly, have a chance to buy-in now for the kind of business opportunities that only come around once in a lifetime… heh-heh.”

Pulling a remote with a single red button on it from his pocket, Max holds it above his head dramatically.

“Friends… Behold!”

Jamming his thumb on the button the center of the ballroom buckles and cracks open sending guests scrambling to the sides of the room. From the large opening rises a model of Arkham, rich in detail though sporting a noticeable difference from the current city.

A massive hydro-electric dam sits on the West side of Arkham creating a massive lake that floods the former Western neighborhoods all the way to the mountains. Much of the river east of Arkham has become little more than a narrow, shallow stream.

“The Arkham Hydro-Electric Nuclear Dam! This bold technological innovation will bring jobs to Arkham, the power it creates will help to supplement Arkham’s economy as our great city moves toward renewable, reliable Green Energy!”

Lowering his hands to his hips Max’s voice almost sounds hopeful. His smile wavers for a moment before a deep, retching laugh claws its way between his metal teeth.

“Is the line I’ll be feeding the people of Arkham. In reality I’ve worked out a deal to have a nuclear element brought in to help power the dam. The lake we create will allow us to control the water supply for Miskatonic County. We’ll corner the utilities market. Now I’ve had assurances from the Marsh family to help supply labor.”

Max nods to the deformed family members in the back corner.

“And our friends, the Whatleys, have assured me that we’ll get all the permitting we need to get this project started immediately.”

The oddly shaped, lumpy men exchange congratulatory nods with each other.

“... and of course Baron von Taterton needs no explaining.”

The shadows hiss around the black robed wrestling necromancer.

“Which is where we come to you, Mister Hudson Vale. I’ve raised considerable funds for this project but we need a financial partner.”

Max’s eyes turn to Vale expectantly.

Hudson takes a look around the room, a gnawing feeling in his gut that if he were to turn this down, everyone might turn into monstrous killers right there on the spot, and kill him.

It's good, then, that he is interested in the project.

“Ambitious,” Hudson says. “‘I see the vision,’ as Daniel likes to say. The only aspect I don't quite understand — and make no mistake, I am requesting clarity — is the nuclear power. What's the angle?”

The practiced, painful smile slides into something more real. The corners of his mouth curl as his brow furrows giving him a goblin-like appearance.

“Nothing lasts forever. Dams get old, they fall apart. Nature constantly tests the order we’ve imposed on it. Besides providing additional power, when that dam breaks.” Kael hisses, turning back to the model. He jumps off the stage, landing on the miniature version of Arkham, crushing trees and small houses. He kicks the dam causing it to break and shatter. Water rushes down into the city, destroying everything in his wake.

“When nature… or terrorists or whatever happens and the dam finally breaks, it’s gonna wipe out Arkham and cover the entire area in radioactive waste. Thousands will probably die, the ancient heart of Arkham will be poisoned and left to die. And then comes the clean up.”

His hands rest on his hips as he dances across the model, smashing whatever remains cheerfully.

“...think of the clean up. Nuclear waste removal. Flood clean up. Reconstruction grants! This entire city will be a goldmine of government disaster funds just waiting to be claimed!”

Hudson's eyes narrow as he examines the model. He glances to his left. Ah, the Chateau. Strong wrists uncork the bottle. He pours himself a glass.

Then he stands to his feet, straightens his jacket, and lifts his glass.

“Friends,” Hudson says, a wink at Max — at brilliant, brilliant Max. “To profits!”

The rest of the room, save for Baron von Taterton, raise their glasses like Hudson toward Max who basks in their adulation atop his ruined model.

“To Profits!”

-

“I just… hrm… I don’t get what possesses a person with a functioning brain to attend Miskatonic. In this economy, Daniel? Best case, you graduate, land in HR, and pray your company’s too broke to replace you with AI.”

Hugo sits beside Daniel at a fold-out table. Three muscular hourlies in athletic wear linger off to the side, doubling as assistants and security.

The two sit in seersucker suits, side by side, effortlessly suffering the August heat, smoking expensive cigarettes with disaffected stares.

The irony’s lost on young Vale: he’s never applied to a college, never even considered it. Still, he knows a reputable school when he sees one, and the campus they’re parked on — in plush ergonomic office chairs, behind a table draped with a banner that reads KAEL 4 MAYOR: CHANGE YOUR MIND —  anything but reputable.

Not in the circles the Boys run.

“I don’t know,” Daniel says, dry, pulling smoke deep into his lungs, holding it longer than necessary. He exhales a fog. “Maybe they were brainwashed by guidance counselors. Led astray too young. Handed bad advice. This, whatever this is… ain’t it.”

“I doubt they even have athletics. Too po’. Sad.”

“Are you taking questions soon? Is that what this is? A debate or whatever?”

The Green Vale Gang turn their heads in perfect synchronicity. A blue-haired student stands across from them, hugging a stack of books.

“Pardon?” Hugo says, shocked by the audacity.

“You’re here talking to students, right?” the student asks. “About Kael? He’s running for mayor?”

Hugo glances at his cigarette, still three-quarters intact. Daniel’s is about the same. Hugo sighs and grinds his into the cloth-draped table. “I suppose,” he mutters. “Guess a young Arkhamite can’t let a gentleman enjoy his preferred tobacco product in peace. It’s a ritual.”

Daniel, stern, echoes: “It’s a ritual.”

“Uh-huh.” She shifts nervously, pondering what all this is and why she hasn’t already left for class. “I could just… go? It’s not like you have much of an audience.”

The crowd is thin. See-through. But that’s to be expected, the boys surmise. Early days. A buzz yet to be established. These things take time.

“No,” Daniel says, cutting Hugo off before he can strip the freshman bare with his unearned wisdom and instinct for sniffing out insecurities. “Stay. Go on. What do you think of Mayoral Candidate Kael? What about his radical agenda unjustly terrifies you, when it should thrill you?”

Hugo and Daniel lean forward, chins in hands.

“His policies,” Daniel says, “are rooted in a genuine desire to improve what matters, what carries weight. Nothing in them reads as negative.”

“Or controversial,” Hugo cuts in, nodding. “Or strange. Or off-putting to the average human. The median human.”

“Well, um…” The student stalls, trying to play along. “What’s Mr. Kael’s plan for the homeless?”

Daniel leans in, whispering: “Was there anything in the literature about the homeless?”

“Nothing that’ll get her to vote for Max, I’m afraid,” Hugo mutters back. “She might even call the cops.”

Daniel straightens, facing the student, unsure. “Mayoral Candidate Kael’s plan for the homeless has been clearly stated, repeatedly, in print and on television.”

“Which is?”

“Tiny cubes,” Hugo says, softening what he’d read in the pamphlets, making a little cube with his hands. “Stacked high, one atop the other. Each just big enough for someone who eats one square meal a day. And I won’t run you through the A-to-Z, but rest assured: the homeless are accounted for, and will be utilized to their fullest capacity.”

“You want to cube homeless people?” someone shouts from the back of the thin crowd.

“I don’t!” Hugo blurts, as though fending off an accusation of being an evil genius bent on stacking the unhoused into efficient cubes, in brutalist structures, perhaps later jackin’ them into Arkham’s overstressed power grid, human lifeforce as a form of renewable energy? Who knows? The platform is unclear on that.  “And neither does Mayoral Candidate Kael! He’s a very sane man!”

“Next question, let’s go,” one of the security-assistant hybrids growls.

A tiny man steps up to the mic, moist and pale, stoop-shouldered, wire-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose, and wracked by a wet little whooping cough.

“What is it?” Daniel snaps.

“What’s Mayoral Candidate Kael’s position on corporate regulation? Will he protect the common Arkhamite if elected, or just bow to big business?” the tiny man asks.

Hugo takes a bottle of water, twists it open, and drains half. He dabs the corner of his mouth with an ornate napkin and ‘graciously’ waves the floor to his partner.

Daniel blinks, caught off guard. Stoic by nature, he hesitates a beat, then says, “Mayoral Candidate Kael bows to no man!”

The tiny man wanders off.

Moments later, a new person steps up to the mic.

Unlike the previous two, the young man’s appearance didn’t immediately cause the Green Vale Gang to recoil in annoyance. The young man, blue-eyed with short blond hair combed neatly to the side, is dressed in a finely tailored suit. His skin is unnaturally pale; his hair, upon closer inspection, is more platinum than blonde, truly.

“Hello, gentleman,” he says. His diction is refined, his enunciation superb — trained, perhaps, in the old grammar.

“Hello,” Hugo says. “What is your name and what is your question?”

“I am Chadwin Winchester St. John IV of the Revenant Society,” he says. “And my only question is where Mayoral Candidate Kael is getting funding for his campaign? We’ve heard whispers that the capital was obtained through… immoral deeds, and sordid dealings with unsavory characters. Is this true?”

Hugo grabs the mic, already shaking his head dismissively. “That is nothing but Armitage family propaganda. They're terrified of what real change means for Arkham. Congratulations: you’ve got an exceptional taste in bespoke Italian fashion, and you are also easily got. You got got. Fake news.”

“But nice suit,” Daniel says.

“Yes, quite nice,” Hugo replies.

Chadwin runs a hand through his blonde hair and smiles. There's mutual interest here, he can feel it.

“So when are you two fellows… done with this?”

“Why?” Hugo asks.

“I've got an event tonight with the Revenant Society. We'd love to have you as guests to… further discuss Mayoral Candidate Kael, as well as… finer things.”

He looks at Hugo and smiles.

Daniel looks at Hugo, shrugs. Hugo grins.

“Know where to get a good cappuccino around here?” Hugo asks.

Chadwin smiles the way a spider does when two flies catch themselves in its web.

-

Behind your computer sits the accolades bestowed to someone with an outstanding film career. Cannes awards, Oscars, even a few Emmys from when you guest-directed episodes of prestige television shows. The shelves stand as a monument to your career, a career where you provided joy and enthusiasm to the masses.

But the masses don't know how much joy and enthusiasm that certain movies provide you.

One of your fellow dark web deviants surprised you this morning. Sent you a link to a page on the dark web called heh-heh-hmm. He said only two words in the message, “worth it.”

When you visit the link, you are brought directly to a pay wall.

It reads: “2 Bitcoin to access.”

You weigh, for a moment, how worth it this truly is. The deviant who sent you this link enjoys the same guilty pleasure genres of film as you. Remembering this, you access your digital wallet, transfer the two BTC, and voila.

You are taken to a white page, with a 72 hour video.

12 point, times new roman font, left aligned on the screen reads: “Blaze Claymore in the role of a lifetime.”

Your deviant friend was correct. Worth it.

This was not the typical snuff film. There was not extreme physical violence inflicted on this man — though there is some. As you thumbnail scroll the video, you note some light physical torture applied to the subject of the film, including some classic waterboarding, but there was more artistic endeavors at play.

Music torture. Whisper torture. Water torture.

Rats and bugs crawling around him, biting him, chattering, gnawing at his flesh.

Real torment. Psychological warfare.

A man Claymore calls “Max” pulling the strings.

Though at times, two slim, lanky men, in suits you've only seen producers wear and lamb masks you've never seen, stand in the room as well. Though they are only seen a handful of times, the times they are there, the psychological warfare amps up, as if this “Max” character wanted to put on a show for them.

Oh, yeah.

This is your shit.

You think you've heard this name before. Blaze Claymore. Had he… read for one of your films before? Been on set at some point? You open a new browser, and search IMDB for the name.

Oh, he's become a professional wrestler.

Interesting.

You go to the PRIME web page, where it says he works.

You see the Ascension card.

Oh.

Oh, wow.

Now, this is juicy.

It appears Claymore and a couple of no-name Hollywood types are taking on Max and… two young men in suits only producers can afford.

Heh heh.

Hmm.

What chances did a tortured artist (literally, lol), a director and his preferred “starlet” who never held an MTV movie award, much less an Oscar, have against…

Against real artists?

Max seemed to understand, innately, things like entertainment value, improvisation, and bringing the “most,” so to speak, out of his subjects.

In another life, he could've been you.

In another life, you could've been he.

And the boys in the masks? These young men who you assume are Hugo Vale and Daniel Green, have enough presence on the camera to command audience attention.

In another life, they'd be the biggest names in Hollywood.

You assume the only reason they aren't is because they aren't interested in making derivative remakes and super hero films.

Blaze, even as the star of this film, lacks their presence.

Elise Aries, whoever she was, never starred in anything this memorable.

The D, someone who called himself a director but certainly didn't have a shelf full of awards, couldn't film something this artistic and twisted if he tried.

You imagine Max, Hugo and Daniel will be far more artistic and twisted in the wrestling ring, as well.

You buy a subscription to the ACE Network. Fuck it.

After all, why watch a 72 hour work of art, if you won't even buy the sequel?