Artful Dissonance
Content warning: violence and sexual themes
The property was far from any town Martin had ever been. It was so secluded that there was no public infrastructure linked to the settlement—in fact, he wouldn’t know if it existed on the land of any local councils, and if it did, he wondered if they knew someone had built a school.
Phoebe Geuring was old. So old, she was never seen. She was seen so little, that many speculated that she was dead. But that led to the allure of the experience. Martin had wanted to be an actor ever since the day he discovered who he was and realised he’d have a much better time being anyone else. His parents fuelled that desire, constant disappointments and degradations led to a life of celebrated mediocrity; it was just never celebrated by him. He knew he didn’t fit; he knew Martin wasn’t who he really was. There was one woman who knew who Martin really was, it was part of the reason behind why he left her to die. Phoebe was going to teach him how to be someone else, how to be anyone else. Although he was already expecting this retreat to be full to the brim of fuckin’ weirdos.
The driveway was lit with lamps, at first thought artificial, but on closer inspection were fuelled by oil. Martin was surprised to the dedication, although he supposed that must be what separates the mediocre from the magnificent. First lesson already done.
There weren’t many other parked cars around the Queenslander cottage. It was multistorey and it was far wider than he would’ve thought. All the lights were on and it was buzzing with anticipation and perspiration. People in workout gear and tights thronged to the foot of the log stairs and martin sheepishly latched onto the back, in his khakis and button-up. If their job was to be someone else, they were all dressed like actors, but Martin had played it clever, he dressed as an accountant, the last thing an actor should look like. He considered if anyone there may have known him, he was willing to take the chance against it.
‘Ladies and gents, dollars and cents!’ a sycophantic cherub called from the landing.
‘Welcome to Geuring’s School of the Performing; I am your spirit guide through these catacombs and crypts. You are so fortunate not just to be here, but to be in an age where acting is proudly explored. No longer are we relegated to the ranks of clowns and whores; we are artists. We are noble, and we will prove worthy. My name is Hans Polish.’
Martin stifled a smile.
Inside was a cabin, a regular mum-and-dad cabin. The décor was simple and wooden.
Men in black unitards handed out full body stockings, Martin took his and watched everyone else strip naked and put it on under their clothes. Martin tip-toed to a corner of the room and slid his on. It was heavier than he would’ve thought.
‘The first rule of art and performing is deception,’ Hans Polish said, his green turtleneck tucking under his cumbersome ginger beard.
‘We have stepped into liminal space.’
‘This is just a cabin,’ a voice called.
‘In your mind, yes. But in my mind—’ Hans paused, gesturing a pallid hand to the far wall where a lever sat under a singing cod mount, ‘this place is a labyrinth of the mind.’
Hans pulled the lever and the wall opened to reveal a larger room, a larger room that was an exact duplicate of the previous room.
Martin heard gasps and feigning, he tucked his hands into his pockets and tried blending in with some muted exhalations of his own.
‘We must blend in, but we must also stand out, the dichotomy of our existence,’ Hans said, stepping into the second-same room. Others gingerly crossed the threshold, weary of booby traps or taunting. Martin moved without grace.
‘Phoebe wishes to witness your merits. You’ve all been specially selected to participate and consider this your first gauntlet.’
Spotlights flicked on overhead, suddenly the set was illuminated and an older avian woman was seen overhead, glowering down upon them. A sneer and wicked eye sweeping over them.
The furniture, which Martin now saw was slightly larger than the furniture in the other room, began to be pulled away by fishing wire or magnets, making room for a studio floor.
Hans stepped atop a chair and said, “lose your name, lose your face, you are now someone else.’
The crowd began to shiver and tremble, squawk and shriek. People spasmed and drooled, bubbled and boiled over, crooked and cracked they surrounded him; or he was simply lost amongst them.
A woman grabbed a man in front of him, ‘Hi I’m Cat,’ she said.
‘Hi Cat, I’m Henry.’
They both shook hands, but the handshake turned into a spasming and soon they wrapped their bodies around each other and jerkily separated. Cat flicked her hair back and reapproached Henry.
‘Hi, I’m Henry.’
‘Hi Henry, I’m Cat.’
They were not who they said they were. The woman Henry departed and took on another form with another participant, and the man Cat swooned for another—he pranced and played with his hair.
A man seized Martin, ‘I’m Buick.’
‘Hi Buick,’ Martin paused, he’s having me on, ‘I’m Hyundai.’
Buick grabbed his hand and recoiled in anguish, doubling over and reforming in Martin’s stature, ‘Hello, I am Hyundai.’
Martin stared and smiled, ‘yeah mate, I’m you too.’
‘Hey, loosen up partner,’ a young redhead said, coming around his shoulder. She locked her fingers behind his head.
‘Aren’t we a bit familiar for strangers?’ Martin asked.
‘Strangers wouldn’t be dancing together,’ she said, swinging her hips.
Martin cracked a wry smile.
‘Friends wouldn’t dance like this either,’ he placed his hands at her hips and moved with her.
‘So what do you think we are then?’
‘People trying to get by, by any means necessary.’
‘That’s far too bleak for me, you really do need to loosen up.’
‘I needed you three months ago.’
‘If you had me then, you wouldn’t have me now.’
Her eyes sparkled blue like sunlight on a gentle river. She kissed his cheek and said, ‘I’m Oracle.’
‘I’m Buick.’
‘I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other soon, by whatever name finds us.’
She swung away and Martin had almost forgotten where he was.
‘I’m Kingston,’ an old man said, grabbing Martin’s hand and leading him into a box-waltz.
Martin, caught off guard, tripped over his own feet.
‘Whoa mate, don’t just do that,’ Martin scolded.
Kingston dropped his hands, ‘you were just dancing, we are meant to be free and open.’
‘Yeah, I am, just not for a guy like yourself,’ Martin said.
Kingston deflated and moved away.
An Asian woman, closer to Martin’s age, tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Hey, I’m Entropy.’
Martin laughed, ‘that’s a good one. I’m Fellatio.’
He curtsied and kissed her hand, she smiled meekly.
‘Nice to meet you.’
She was gone.
Martin once attended a church pageant where he played Joseph in a retelling of the birth of Christ. He couldn’t picture any of these people playing that role convincingly, he had to remind himself of why he was there before he took this joke too far.
‘All right, cease,’ Hans called.
Everyone gradually wind down and turned to face Hans, but he was facing Phoebe. She pointed and gestured a decapitation. Hans nodded.
Arrows arced down from the rafters and were caught in the torsos and necks of actors. Five of them, they didn’t fall back or stumble, they fell back a step and yelped or coughed as the air was pushed from their lungs. No one screamed, the room was silent. One of them fell to the floor, folding on himself. It had struck him in the middle of his chest and blood had blotted his clothing, but now, nothing wept from the wound. Blood didn’t spray or spurt, they just touched the shafts of the arrows with their hands, feeling them to the point where they buried into their bodies—except for the guy with the arrow in his neck. The air was whistling around the arrow shaft and blood was seeping from the wound, his eyes were wide and his mouth was askew as he tried to breathe. He rocked on his feet before an arrow entered his eye socket, at which point he crumpled to his feet.
‘Don’t use more than one arrow!’ Hans yelled.
‘If you survive the arrows, you’re deemed worthy enough to still be a part of the program,’ someone whispered behind Martin. He felt his unitard, are these holding fake arrows? Is it a corkboard?
The three remaining were shepherd to stand beneath Phoebe. Two men in black whispered to them, and the three apologised for wasting the opportunity Phoebe had granted them. One more man in black came forward and knelt them down, laying their necks on a chopping block. Martin couldn’t see the actors, but he saw the executioner swinging the axe. The first actor’s head took four strikes of the axe to severe, the second took three, and luckily, the last actor took one.
The other guards quickly peeled the skin from the heads and gave them to Hans.
Martin couldn’t peel his eyes away and he couldn’t lift his fingers from the unitard—he kept feeling around for the spring-loaded arrows or some protective padding, he felt nothing.
‘If anyone is struggling with these exercises, please take a face. They will be called, Tom, Dick, and Harry.’
The faces sat on an adjacent table. But before they could take the two dead bodies away, Martin scrambled to one of them.
‘Hey mate, are you okay?’
He unfolded the body of the guy who had been shot in the chest, his eyes were open and unblinking, but he didn’t feel cold. Martin shook him, ‘are you okay, that looked like it hurt.’
He prayed the man would respond. Martin felt for a pulse, but as his finger slipped under the unitard, two guards dragged him away.
He never saw how they disposed of the bodies, or if the bodies just walked away.
Martin had forgotten to breathe, his face was caught in paralysis, and his body was stone. Hans clapped his hands and the people began switching in front of his eyes. They were unperturbed.
A young woman spun Martin around.
‘I’m Anvil.’
‘I—’
She quizzically rested her hands on her hips, ‘who da fuck are you?’ she said in a mock New Jersey accent. She giggled playfully. Martin couldn’t un-flare his nostrils.
He looked back at Hans who was watching, Phoebe behind him had been staring directly at him.
‘I’m Buick,’ Martin said in a heavy breath.
The woman jumped on him and put her hands under his shirt, then she squealed and scurried away.
Martin had taken roots in his spot, he saw blurs dance by him, and his mouth went dry.
‘I’m Calypso!’ A hand wiggled his palm open.
‘I’m—I’m Buick.’
The body pressed and grinded against his, hot breath and sweat lathered his body. As they pulled away, Martin remembered, ‘wait!’
They were gone.
‘I’m Hyundai.’
Martin faced the voice; he had never seen this person before.
‘I’m Calypso,’ he said, his body rigid and his arms protecting his torso.
‘Relax,’ the person said, prying him open and kissing the nape of his neck, one hand slid down the back of his pants and squeezed his ass cheek. Martin shuffled back and knocked a couple over.
‘I-I’m sorry,’ Martin said, leaning down to help them. He quickly looked back at Hans who saw, and was shaking his head. The couple were dragged away. Martin was on his knees, they didn’t protest. His sweat dripped onto the wooden floor. He could smell something sour in the air, it was coming in strands and it was making him weaker.
‘I’m Hyundai,’ a different voice said.
Martin looked at them, they had lowered a hand.
‘I’m Hyundai.’
He took their hand, but they came down upon him. His shirt was torn open and Hyundai began biting his nipple. Martin splayed out and watched the yellow teeth nibble and tug, the pain cut through the noise and the smell. He breathed it in, forced himself up, pushing Hyundai off of him.
‘I’m Hieronymus,’ some ponytail said, slithering up to Martin as he rose.
‘Get the fuck out of my way.’
‘Stop!’ Hans cried.
Martin hit the deck.
Arrows flew, a few fell, the flock flinched.
Martin steadied himself, he could see the bloodied footprints they’d all been leaving behind.
The dance renewed and Martin darted through the crowd to get to Hans.
‘Hey, mate,’ Martin said.
Hans was humming to himself.
‘I need the bathroom,’ Martin continued.
Hans laughed, ‘no you don’t.’
The guards were waiting, keenly observant.
‘Yeah, but I do and I don’t want to sully this event, if you understand my meaning.’
‘This has been organised so professionally, so cleverly that I know that you do not need to use the toilet, Mr Nilson.’
The people played and sojourned behind him.
‘Yes, I do, I drank a bottle of water in the car.’
Hans turned to Phoebe then back.
‘No, you didn’t.’
Martin saw Phoebe grinning; her veneers were too big for her mouth. Hans was smiling widely, Martin returned to the event. No one paid him any mind. An arrow flew past his head and bit into a woman’s calf, she yowled and clutched it, but no guard came over. She winced and waved up at Phoebe, before resuming her play; she limped and she left droplets behind.
Martin closed his eyes and tried to breathe, before another arrow struck a man in the arm. He too continued, although the bone had shattered in the socket.
Martin struggled to his feet.
‘I’m Hyundai,’ he greeted an older Asian woman.
‘I’m Spiderman,’ she said, web-slinging. He took her hand and shimmied languidly like he was on barbiturates. ‘You don’t look like a Hyundai,’ Spiderman said. He moved away quickly.
‘I’m Spiderman,’ Martin greeted another. This man had removed his pants and his penis was red-raw.
‘I’m a bad boy.’
Martin went to take his hand but Bad Boy shook his hand and leaned back with his flaccid member almost touching Martin. Martin slapped it and Bad Boy howled before skulking away.
‘I’m Hieronymus,’ the prior ponytail said.
‘Bad Boy,’ Martin said, ponytail went to kiss him, Martin pushed him aside but relented. Ponytail pushed his tongue through Martin’s lips but he had clamped his teeth down—unfortunately, Hieronymus still licked greedily.
Martin was spun around and faced a bloodied mask, ‘I’m Dick.’
Martin was paralysed by an electric chill, the lips were open and some gum was still attached, Dick was sucking on the gum of the top lip. The eye sockets drooped and revealed too much of the face beneath. Dick had to keep their head angled to stop the mask from sliding down further.
‘I’m Hieronymus.’
Hieronymus screamed wildly, dropped to the floor, and hugged Martin’s waist, leaving one hand to keep the mask secured to their face. Martin faced away and waited for them to finish. Hieronymus rose, and placed the mask on Martin’s face. It was cold and wet.
Martin stood still, unable to move. He was totally severed from the room, the people.
‘I’m Martin,’ a woman said.
He knew the voice; he turned to face her.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, earnestly.
‘I’m Dick,’ Martin said to his wife.
She took his hand and shook it delicately. Her smile was pristine, and there wasn’t a hint of recognition in her eyes.
‘First time? Mine too,’ she whispered, ‘I heard after this, it becomes transformative.’
‘What are you transforming into?’ he asked.
‘Someone who can kill my husband.’