Selection from The Vaults of Fug: The Story of U.

This is a pretty nice deconstruction of the cold assassin trope who is maybe also somewhat tired of being an assassin, that also does some interesting stylistic things with language.

Originally written by IG Agent 6 in The Vaults of Fug.(affiliate link)

You are traveling by rail. . . .in a private compartment, smooth & effortless. Through the ice-battened mountain passes your train glides. . .over marshy fens, redolent with subtle stinks of decay & haunted by lonesome cries of marsh-birds. . .past the great symbolic guardians of the city’s honor — the weeping bronze Virgin & the Obsidian Arch — past the deserted factories upon the city’s edge, past dour tenements & urban squares where children await the train’s passing as they would a sporting event.

A clove cigarette sprouts delicately from the fingers of your right hand, efficiently rising to your thin lips. . .inhale. . .pupils dilate with no particular reason. . .exhale. . .your contract’s name is Unglaub; not much else is known.

The Faceless man can adapt himself to any situation. This is the Story of U.

Couched in your lap lie a few papers. . .a grainy photograph against a gray background — like a water-color rendering of thick fog, a personal history of non-existence: no friends, no relations, no social activities. . .the man works at some indistinct job that makes you yawn. . .of average height, average weight, average features. . .of average strength, he is not known to hold personal opinions. A man no one knows whose death will pay well. . .that is alright.

Drag on the cigarette, the train slows. . .into the Grand Terminus; a triple-layered cake of plastic & poured concrete, artificially white, jeweled with blue-black glass. The train unloads. . .you emerge into the milling crowd, sliding sidewise on strong currents, a particle of crystal in a violent stream. Surge of people breaks against self as you slip thru. Always, it is like this. . .in such a sea of faces you melt invisibly; the individuality of many features drown out the blandness of your own. Faces bob on rolling shoulders: thick peasant faces with blue eyes, towheaded young faces on slim necks, upthrust faces with massive rudder-like noses, coarse ruddy faces with strands of red hair plastered against foreheads, & O the glorious extent of these faces shines forth, seeming to eclipse your presence. . .you pass like a shade in the sun, unremembered & unremarked upon.

. . . . . .the hotel room was reserved by your employers thru an unknown third party two weeks ago, the statistically usual space of time in which businessmen reserve rooms. What a hideous, business-like room it is; drab & garish both. . .a multi-tone bed sinks into the deep orange carpet. . .flanked by fake wooden end-tables sturdy as cardboard. . .2 lime-green table lamps casting sepia light. . .an uninspiring painting of a shipwreck, in which the vessel dissipates from lack of self-will while its crew jogs aimlessly about trying to alleviate their boredom. . . . .all watched blindly by a small, tinny television. There is such a thing as too close an adhesion to the median standard.

You unplug the lime-green table lamps, creating a delightful simulation of dusk. . . . . .breathing slightly you shove all obstructions from the room’s center. . .in one corner you kill the television’s sludge-black screen with a lime-green table lamp. . . .back at the room’s center you lie stiffly down, staring at the eggshell ceiling. . . . . . .thinking.

Ah. . .but this is wrong, all wrong. . .planning & contemplation of crime requires an environment far different from this seedy little room. . .you need smoke-laden cafes at midnight where junkie poets blather of flowers & conspiracy, hospital wards in which can be continually heard the dying rattle of patients like cheap toys winding down, abattoirs stinking of blood & feces, freshly dug graves, seances where candle smoke hangs above bowed heads. . .anything but this miserable joke of bourgeois comfort, smelling of mummified dust. . .you require real bones & vitality for murder. . .

The next few days are spent in scouting the perfect location for work. When found, you have to smile dreamily at its aesthetic excellence. . .now it is time to meet the contract.

Unglaub lives in one of the new high-rises that dominate the city’s financial district, not the finest but well-respected. . .this first time here you examine the building’s exterior characteristics; smooth & unconnected to any other building it does not present a good climbing opportunity. . .The doormen eye you warily as you stub out your cigarette, taking especial care to sweep the ashes into your palm & pocket them with the butt. . .after all, you would not like to have a patrol of the Janitorial Youth Corp (J.Y.C.) called on you. . .

. . .-These select groups of ferocious young people are rampant; ready to swoop down on some unsuspecting secretary should she drop her half-smoked Sobranie in the gutter instead of the proper trash-receptacle, ready to rough-up any anti-socially inclined individual who coughs up phlegm in improper surroundings, always ready to execute those who would besmirch the public hygiene. Surface cleanliness is their watchword. They drill unceasingly with brooms & mops & custodial equipment in the eventuality that despotic troops of a foreign power invade & make a mess, or worse, if dirty mobs of our own people were to run wild throughout the antiseptic streets being unseemly & causing disorder.

The danger of meeting with these bands of highly efficient cleaners is quite real — you are alone on the street, having unfortunately forgotten that today is one of the city’s somnolescent holidays. . .right now; families gather at the small, well-designed parks. . .engaging in the prescribed activities known to encourage mental health & well-being. . .they will picnic on the soft lawns, holding charming conversations devoid of political content. . .as evening creeps on they will couple languidly beneath warm quilts; groups of accomplished musicians supported by the Cultural Commission will provide polite entertainments, a desultory fireworks display shall flash briefly in the sky, & the populace will weep peacefully when confronted with the calm beauty of their lives. Aware of these proceedings & the incongruity of your own non-attendance you turn from Unglaub’s building & walk steadily from the financial district; being extremely careful not to shrug bits of lint or dirt off in your progress.

Two days later. . .evaded the doormen through a trite ruse involving floral delivery. In the elevator you change from the lightly soiled coveralls into a tasteful charcoal-gray two-piece suit. Dispose the attention-drawing bouquet down a garbage chute. . .in front of Unglaub’s door you pause momentarily to assume character.

Knock. Listen intently as the echo looks for some other sound to combat. . .

. . .there is nothing, no music or electronic mumbling, no feet drifting through plush carpets, no water bead forming on a faucet’s tip, no measured breathing, no spider’s web tingling from the spider’s step, no settling of shadow, nothing; silently, the door opens.

Yes. . .that is the face, you stifle a yawn. It reminds you of some weird butter in this light, almost translucent, immaterial; a square little tab of humanity balanced between melting & holding its shape. “Mr. Unglaub?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Unglaub, I represent the Society for Anonymous Existence; surely you are familiar with our many good works. . . .”

“No.”

“Uhrm, well. . .that’s the whole point, isn’t it? Once a year the society bestows an award on that individual who best exemplifies our goal of non-descript self-effacement & this year, sir, that individual is you!”

“Don’t want, don’t need, no thank you.”

“Who does, Mr. Unglaub, who does? But honors such as this are obligatory; refusing one would be deemed highly irregular & likely to draw a good deal of comment & attention, Oh yes! Very out of the ordinary Mr. Unglaub, very!”

“Then. . .I accept.”

“Of course. . .now the ceremony is tomorrow night, 7:00 PM., at the Cathedral of Our Lady of Passionate Complacency — formal attire required — I’m sure you understand the Society’s bylaws call for limited attendance, guests are far too inquisitive & awkward.”

“Yes, thank you. . . .good day.”

How tedious. . . .people are essentially predictable.

. . . . .The priest, unaware of your presence, gives mass to the empty pews. His failing eyesight, customary lack of audience, & devotion to useless ritual render you invisible. With a whisper the stiletto pierces to his heart — the wrinkled face blanches in surprise. . .a shock of white hair snakes over his brow. Behind the icon of the complacent Madonna you stretch him out, soft old skull pillowed on the folds of her marble robes; his lips are turned in a petulant moue & a trickle of blood runs from his nose. . .the Heavenly Mother stares smugly down, patting her distended belly.

Glance at your watch, 6:26 PM., plenty of time to play tourist.

How beautiful the Cathedral is! Commissioned by the Nouveau Riche laity of the last century who wished to flaunt their good taste. . .many elegant flourishes abound; the attention to unimportant detail by people who know there are no threats against their welfare, who see there can be no diminishment of their righteous prosperity, & therefore use time & wealth in pursuit of artistic decadence.. the walls & floor are red stone which, in this half-light, has turned a pretty rose-petal pink; while the ceiling, & the 6 columns that support it, are of some rare burgundy colored wood, intricately carved with flowing curves suggestive of a refined palate.

The triangular stained-glass windows portray incidents of proper, middle-class virtue in the family of Christ. . .6:38 PM. . . virtues that the congregation obviously wanted to be reminded of, as the true source of their own strengths & which they were desirous of inculcating in their own children.

Here is the Messiah driving money-changers from the temple for charging penurious interest, piously observing the wisdom of never taking loans against one’s capital. . . .& there, there is Joseph bargaining with innkeepers for reduced rates, shrewdly accepting a job as night-watchman of the stables & getting paid in foodstuffs. . . .6:43. . .all nicely executed, yet still rather lacking the profundity of meaning found in traditional interpretations. . .yes, here is a representation of Jesus when 12 years old, going about his Father’s business of carpentry, skillfully planing a table.

Enough. . .6:45. . .bored, you pace the Cathedral’s nave; pocketing a few coins from the alms basin (32 df. exactly) which amount, according to the last census, is the statistically average tithing of an individual congregation member.

6:48. . .this structure — you can only describe it as geometrically oppressive. . . as if you were entombed within Descartes’ Chiliagon, its thousand sides too monstrous for comprehension; & from each side is cast an alien shape of shadow, multiplying unreason. What if it were to burn: what strange dimensions might be created by flame coiling into this non-Euclidean complex of curves & angles? What Topologies? Would the ashes be infundibular?

Although it’s unlikely Unglaub would be more than punctual you decide to hide in the first confessional — leaving the door barely ajar to observe the central aisle. . .6:52. . .womb-dark, musky like a cave, you watch the long shadows sway against columns & lull upon benches. . .chains with 7-branched candelabra swing from the ceiling, sniff the ancient layers of spice. . .pine needles & molding leaves. . .

. .imagine yourself a hunter in the blind, awaiting the deer’s arrival — it comes the same hour every night — eyes darting; the deer is a habitual creature, so are all wild beasts, wolves & so forth. Only Man can break routine but often does not wish to. . .6:59. . . .the lust for just one clove is murder!. . .the aroma could blend easily. . .but no, little pleasures must be delayed in deference to far greater pleasures.

You squint for signs of movement in the woods. . . .a hint of birdsong?. . .

. . .quiet. . .7:06. . .no, he’s not coming — this late — not him. Depressed, you shuffle from your cover — perplexedly playing the stiletto hand to hand — walk down the aisle, hang-dog & sullen. . .stop off at the alms basin, in its pearl-white center a glimmer of coins, 32 df., the statistically average amount left by. . .an

. . .statistically average. . .32 df. . .your pocket. . .32 df. . .& you’re moving on stalks of blood & bone, away from the basin to a secure corner where you can snarl defiantly at the dark, fast, you trip over some obstruction, an outstretched leg perhaps? Scuttle on the floor, a quick revolving survey, there, what’s that, a face! You fling the stiletto, never done, especially not by operatives of your skill — perhaps you have become too self-confident, individualistic — it strikes the suggestive pattern on the column before you, a trick of what little gray light is left. . . .an echo behind you, like the purposeful dropping of a pin, turn, turn back, how accomplished your technique, yes, the stiletto is gone! Did you really expect different?

The northern corner, safe & inviting, only side of this church that makes a true right angle; everything else folded & cut by a madman — & the light has dissipated, the darkness elongated thru forces of adrenaline & fear; everything is gray, gray like Unglaub’s face, like a bowl of oatmeal porridge.

You start to back into that corner, how comforting & dependable to have a true right angle at such times, control your breathing. Remember, control of the breath leads to control of the heart, control of the heart to control of the brain, control of the brain to control of the man. The Cathedral’s distorted perspective lengthens in time to your step.

Step. . .step. . .almost backed against the wall. . .when an animal is its most dangerous. . .backed against the wall. . .Unglaub’s hand reaches gracefully over your shoulder, slipping the stiletto into your throat.

Fall. . .difficult to breathe like this. . .not much pain, but so difficult to breath!. . your head shifts back, Unglaub seems to coagulate within the gloom, giving you a polite almost smile. . .wiping his fingers on a monogrammed linen, how extravagant, he steps over the spreading pool of blood; cautious not to sully his comfortable loafers.

As you watch him leave, stopping only to bend a knee quickly for a short prayer — the common show of faith expected — a dying thought intersperses its rhythm with your dying heart.

“How very. . .out. . .out of the ordinary.”