Short Story: Golem

Richard Hicksworth was beside himself. For all the times he had stared into the abyss and found it quoted federal regulations with no regard for decency, he now was the abyss from within which lurked a monster. He came to wonder if indeed he could control his own destiny, rather than being pulled under the tide and drowned by the sycophant which steered a body that could be rightfully his. He walked, in control of his motions, and not a series of quarks connecting themselves in the void of space between Agent Rick’s scattered, fleeting thoughts where a thousand personalities were disassembled and reglued like patchwork monsters. He walked. In and of itself it was a wondrous thing, to control, to guide, to be. No longer questioning his own reality.

With him walked the wizard Azzamador. Who himself was no stranger to a fractious persona. As the wizard was wont to do, he periodically withdrew a small satchel from his robes and sniffed indelicately from its vapour. The drugs. Richard Hicksworth stared ahead, in shame, remembering how Agent Rick had plied the wizard with drugs based off an obscure cartoon to fuel his drug addiction and make him potentially malleable. What happened, however, was unpredictable, even to the Middle Deep State. They had unlocked his third eye and caused him to exist in a state of variability, in which his potentialities existed in strain and conflict. Memories from lives he had or could have lived conflicted within the frame of his mortal shell.

A shell which had withered substantially since his use of Black Lotus began. Overconsumption being a fickle whore.

Far had he fallen from the glorious wizard of might and magick which every painfully awkward nerd wants to be, and into the caricature of the ancient perverted archon recognised by every writer of fantasy in a post-gentile world. Bent, greyed, mumbling incessantly, speaking to versions of himself with acrimonious details that never quite matched the situation they found themselves in. And always with the references to obscure characters who existed in multiverses none had reached but he.

Obviously relatable.

At least to Richard, who could sympathise with the senile wizard’s plight. After all, wasn’t Azzmador now just one of many voices trapped inside a vessel? A kind of universal solvent being mixed out of recognisance by the many dilutants overwhelming it? Insanity. Such a fascinating little trifle. No wonder then that the doubtful sane so love to fancy it.

Richard shook his head of his revelries, unproductive, sombre, morose and tinged ever with the knowledge that he would be drowned in the cosmic sea within the agent’s brain as the owner of their body clawed forth. Or worse, that one of the many other splits in their multivariate personae might emerge. Heretofore Richard had proved the strongest of the breaks, but his own conviction ebbed and flowed, and the sheer and overwhelming ridiculousness of Agent Rick was itself eroding. Richard’s relapse into revelry was broken by an exclamation on the part of Azzmador.

“Ah yes,” Azzmador said. Mumbled, really. He now no longer so much exclaimed as droned, yelled as blurted, spoke as droned. “This is all so very familiar, why it reminds me of the time I—“

And he was gone.

“Azzmador,” Richard pressed gently, “why are we here?”

“Well, I believe we’re here to…” Azzmador trailed off, taking a hit of black lotus from his robes, “well I… have I ever told you of the time I-“

“You mentioned something once about Talmudic wizards destroying the weather?” Richard asked. “There was a guy, he said something about HAARP. I guess the government has been seeding clouds, or something, to make droughts.”

“Cloud seeding…” Azzmador groaned, “oh yes, there was once this invocation I did with a black witch… what was her name… anyway the experiment was to see if a man could inseminate a Goddess in the way a God inseminates a maiden to create the shining child!”

“…Did you?” Richard asked.

“What? No, I was run out of town for fucking the chieftain’s only daughter.” Azzmador said. “Now what was I saying?”

“Talmudic wizards,” Richard groaned, feeling dirty at the very mention.

“Ah, yes, the keenest of magicians!” Azzmador said, he stepped back and extended his arms, “behold! Look at my glory! It is by a great Talmudic secret that my body withstands the power of my magisterial art!”

“What is it?” asked Richard hesitantly.

“Ah, don’t tell Zogg Sch’lomogogmagog, but it is the wee bits of unbaptised christian children.”

“You mean…” Richard asked, gagging.

“Indeed,” Azzmador said, motioning to himself, “is it not wondrous, their anti-aging properties?”

Richard looked into Azzmador’s eyes and could feel his soul being pulled from his body by the incontestably warped, spiritually deformed, and now physically hideous shell which contained the ruinous soul of the wizard. To look upon him in full was indescribably awful, with grainy photos of Rasputin being a mere fraction of the disgust summoned by the chakras to defend potential victims against his consumptive presence.

Richard looked away. “Anyway.” He said.

“Ah, yes!” Azzmador exclaimed.

Richard stopped. It dawned on him then that they were in the middle of a desert. There was nothing of substance in any direction. There were no clouds in the sky. No hills in the distance, nor gulches. Nothing. Flat, yellow-orange sand. A blue sky. Richard’s pulse quickened. He sweat freely. He looked this way and that, back and forth. Nothing. No signs. No nothing. Not like New England where the trees could swallow souls whole, or where one could at least follow the streams to their sources. Here there was no life. Not even the vultures followed them, where under any normal circumstances a murder of crows followed Azzmador assuming he had died.

“Azzmador you ass!” Richard roared, “we’re stranded!”

“Stranded you say?” Azzmador asked, snorting some lotus, “why that reminds me of-“

“No!” Richard cried, “No! This has gone too far!”

Azzmador grew silent.

“Look, what do you see?” he asked plainly. Experiencing a brief, if unhelpful, moment of clarity.

“Nothing,” Richard said, “it’s like a videogame setting before the designers download anything into it. Flat. No nothing.”

“What’s heh?” the wizard asked incoherently.

Richard sighed and continued the thought on his own. A blank slate. Had there been terraforming? In a land with no breeze, nor cloud, nor discernible weather pattern of any kind. Had the scientists done what the guy from Warlock could not and found the word of uncreation? Richard shuddered. A long, miasmic revelry followed as each broken man entertained their daemons. It was broken some time later when in the seeming centre of the blue a cloud germinated, like a small ball at first, unravelling like so much yarn. The cloud spread, and seeded itself, as if unfolding from some unseen box. Soon the skies were covered in puffy, white, cartoonishly pleasing clouds.

“My god…” Richard breathed.

The clouds hung there, motionless, absolutely motionless. Unanimated.

“Zog,” Azzmador breathed.

Richard sighed, irritated that Azzmador was under the impression that Zog was a daemon and not an acronym. Richard watched the clouds, and then gasped. He saw a flash in the distance, as his mind fumbled for its direction he saw what appeared to be a focused gust of wind come up from the ground past the horizon.

“Azzmador, look!” Richard cried. “Look an… ah… an evil wind!”

Azzmador said nothing and hobbled in the direction of the blast, “none shall conjure the Winds of Evil but me! Come, man-servant, let us ensure this endeavour is a critical failure and that he who casts the dice of reckoning is reduced to an obliterated husk not fit to be buried alive in his mother’s wine cellar!”

“Did you just make a D&D joke?” Richard asked.

Azmador said nothing as he scampered hurriedly along.

Their progress was slow. Not only did Richard have to find new and creative ways to redirect the insane, mentally incompetent wizard, but they were stopped at every rest by zombies. The zombies, Richard reckoned, were animated by the BluToof graphein compounds which re-electrified their corpses and sent neural impulses into their withered brains approximating a simulacrum of their former selves in a way that fictitious facebook posts could. Their madness was induced by a grasp of half and false memories compiled in a database and haphazardly downloaded into their reanimated brains as a part of some google executive’s desire to bring his dad back to life.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. The end result was always the same. Azzmador cooked them with a fireball spell. Each vaxxx zombie died the same, reduced to ash which slowly liquefied and became a viscous, statically charged goo. Richard managed to ask if the wizard knew any spells, but Azzmador informed him simply that the fireball spell wreaked the most damage and had the best kill ratio per chance of critical failure. Richard did not dare ask about the question of critical failure. It all should have been very frightening indeed, but Richard really wanted to talk about the weather. It didn’t work, Azzmador was still senile, and any talk of the weather sent him into a disjointed rant. So it went. In the course of their journey, the seed cloud had caused rain in the desert, snow, hail, electrical storms and all variety of mortal weather. Richard was convinced it must have been some kind of preparatory test. Azzmador was convinced there was a wizard battle afoot.

And so they went.

Eventually they came upon a door leading underground. The door wasn’t particularly impressive, as Richard might have expected, but rather it was a wooden tavern door set within a jamb inside a plain wall. A wall clad in pine clapboard, of all things, with unrouted fascia and trim. The claps were oiled but not stained, and the trim had a greenish hue from some natural stain. What passed for a roof was laid upon with sod and turf, sprouting luscious green grass.

“Is that a bloody Hobbit House?” Richard asked.

There was no answer to his question. Instead a directed energy beam pulse in the not too distant horizon. Richard squeaked and hit the ground, covering his head. Azzmador stood unphased, mumbling about some lost rats he intended to experiment on. Lamenting their loss. Richard hissed, but the wizard was busy snorting narcotics and remembering a wicked witch he had cast a critically failed lovespell on in the woods once. “Damn it!” Richard spat as he continued to experience a rather frightful case of clove a terre.

Through it all, Richard fixed his eyes upon the beam, finally rising to his knees when he concluded the immediate threat passed overhead. “Christ, I hope this ain’t giving me AIDS.”

“Aids for the poor?” Azzmador asked, before descending into a rant about how he had used homeless veterans as guinea pigs to test the effects of withering magic and passed them off as disease victims.

“Christ, you and the Jews deserve eachother,” Richard said, “you are without a doubt perhaps my biggest disappointment.”

“Thank you,” Azzmador said, squinting intensely into the immediate present. Surely he saw some horrid thing which would have melted Richard’s face if only he could see.

“I think the Hobbit Hole goes to the beam weapon,” Richard said.

“The Necromancers…” Azzmador said, “yes… yess… let us go, and we shall see who the true master of the dark arts is!”

“…Yes…” Richard said. “Of course.” By now Richard was coated in a sickly sheen of sweat. He had the inescapable feeling that within the sea of madness would pull him under, and the idiotic darkness that was Agent Rick. He shuddered, and one could see the bags grow under his eyes in live action. Sucking in a sharp breath he approached the door with pained, slow movements.

“Won’t you knock?” Azzmador asked, “wouldn’t want to be rude…”

Richard scoffed and opened the door. The unlocked door to the Hobbit Hole in the middle of a desert being terraformed into a frozen jungle. “I hate my life,” Richard said and stepped inside. Indeed, inside was what Richard would have expected. But for the rounded, almost domed ceiling of plaster of paris, was an English cottage with warmly coloured wooden wainscoting, lath walls with the occasional pictures. A pile of newspapers lay neatly arranged around the beautiful walnut dining table and oaken dining chairs. No plates were set, and only one coffee cup stood with joe inside steaming blissfully. ‘Keep calm and Rule Britannia’ was the insufferably cheesetastic slogan.

“Azzmador, are we in Britain, or something?” Richard asked.

“No, I believe we’re in Iranistan,” said the wizard, “you know I had quite the adventure in Iranistan and oversaw the most unlikely of arranged marriages between…”

“Ah!” Richard said, cutting the wizard off.

“Who’s there?” came a distinctly erudite, Richard thought regal even, British voice.

Richard swallowed hard.

“Em, Richard, and, ah,” he began to fumble, “Torbjorn.”

“Well Richard is a fine British name, anyway,” the voice said, coming closer. Richard felt chilled as he saw a silhouette round a corner, shadow flickering against the firelight of a mantel in the next room. The cosy crackling had caused Azzmador to become woozy, who sat down at the shoe changing chair by the door. The silhouette lurched, head thrust forward as it steered a lanky body with hands thrust in the pockets.

The head that turned the corner and appeared in the way belonged to King Charles III. Richard gasped. “…King Charles?” he asked. He glanced at Azzmador who had dozed off to sleep in the chair and hissed. Nothing happened.

“You? You’re controlling HAARP?”

“I’m bankrolling HAARP,” he answered flatly. “So you might say I have an element of… control… though I prefer the term ‘guidance,’ one must remain impartial, you understand.”

“Right…” Richard said. “…Why… why aren’t you in, um, England?”

“I am in England,” the King said slowly, measuredly. “Is the world not now a global village? Are we not at home in every land?”


King Charles motioned for Richard to sit at the table. “Sit,” the King said. “It’s time for elevensies.”

“But that’s…”

“Hobbit talk?” King Charles asked slowly. “Indeed.” He pulled out one of the papers whose headline read ‘Hail the Hobbit King.’ King Charles disappeared back into the other room and returned with a tray of silver tea accoutrements and a tray of plain crumpets. “They mock what they do not understand,” the King said as he slid the tray onto the table, “oh, do excuse the mess – I’ve dismissed the servants.” Charles sat across from the clammy Richard and smiled, “we have within our power a capacity for unlimited progress and understanding. Those who act manfully, who grasp the reins and take control of destiny shall find we can rewrite the laws of nature.”

“But those have been rewritten,” Richard said, motioning to one of the stories under the main page of the topmost paper which spoke of some tranny’s hurt feelings.

“I have no interest in petty, pathetic social justice issues,” the King said, “it is only a phase which shall burn itself out. But what we can do with our planet, our earth, will last forever…”

Richard nodded.

King Charles sighed and shrugged slowly, “anyway. None of this matters. I know the iron law of fiction, I’m no stranger to Shakespeare, and we are all of us actors upon a stage. How does this story end? What will you do?”

“I don’t know,” Richard said honestly.

“Am I an evil tyrant whom you depose to win your princess? Such an American notion, by the way. Many kings have died for less than the right to win a commoner.” He chuckled, “or am I a mere puppet? A slave to some shadowy economic forum? Is it true that positions of power are titular? Or can one perhaps play the cards away from unseen hands and bring them to their own advantage? Or, could it be that I am just an old man with a job?”

“I… I don’t know,” Richard answered, “this is too big for me, but I know it’s wrong.”

“Wrong, is it?” the King asked. “In whose book? Nevermind. I ask again: what will you do?”

Richard shifted in his seat, but before he could stand, Charles lashed out with surprising speed and bonked him on the head. Richard’s face fell forward onto the surface of the table, drool spilling out onto the newspaper with a headline about a schizophrenic rogue agent accidentally revealing a plot to infect citizens with nanites being right wing propaganda.

“You then,” King Charles said, looking to the sleeping wizard.

Azzmador started awake. “You!” he spat, pointing a crooked finger, “I have come to challenge you!”

“You would challenge me?” King Charles asked, “the green sovereign? With what?”

“None shall rival my magick,” Azzmador said, trying to sound ominous and failing, “who try, shall die.”

“What?” Charles asked dubiously, “magick, then? Let me tell you about magick. My car runs on recycled cheese and wine, and has a negative carbon footprint, its emissions have been shown to add nutrients to the environment! That is magick!”

Azzmador, whose magick could only ever destroy, faltered. “Cheese you say?” the wizard stammered, “I once tangled with a God named Sheogorath who was fond of cheese, who caused exploding clowns to rain from the heavens.”

“Indeed,” Charles said dismissively and sat down, “say, why don’t you go for a walk and observe our works, will you?” the King suggested.

By this time the body once steered by Richard began to stir. Rising, Agent Rick ran his hands through his hair. He looked down at himself and scowled, seeing he was dressed in plaid flannel and jeans, with no aviator shades to hide his eyes. “Disgusting,” he groaned.

“I see the rumours are true,” King Charles said, crossing his arms, “an upstart American, a rogue agent disrupting our plans.”

“Disrupt?” Agent Rick asked, “no sir. I have only ever served the Government, right or wrong!” his eyes sparked, “my King!”

King Charles raised an eyebrow, “Americans recognise no king.”

“Americans no, but power yes. We saw how magisterially you cucked to the Jews in the World Economic Forum,” Agent Rick said, “and that, that is the stuff of legend, a true servant.”

Charles glowered and swallowed.

“Does it work?” Agent Rick asked, “the weather machine?”

King Charles nodded, “we have created paradise.”

“…You… what?” Agent Rick asked.

“Yes,” the King said, “come, look upon our works with Gandalf there.”

The two men rose and went outside. The desert had been converted into a fruitful jungle, trees straightened themselves, uncurling like ferns and reaching for the sun as they spoke. The ice had all but melted, feeding the fresh green. The trees all bore fruit, and lush vegetation rose with enough capacity to feed tens of thousands. The vast flat acreage now a basin of untold culinary riches.

“Huh,” Agent Rick said flatly. “I don’t get it.”

“We will make good on our promises, to steward our people, to feed and clothe them. Must they own anything, to be happy, when Eden can be planted in their back yards?”

“Why though?” Agent Rick asked, “how does this make you powerful?”

King Charles laughed, “because those who eat may own nothing, but we own the garden, and so the gardener!”

Agent Rick pursed his lips and shrugged, “I’d have used armies, if I were a king.”

“Your bully boy tactics have torn America apart,” King Charles spat.

“Well, how do you control your people?” Agent Rick asked, “if not by fear? Kings used to have teeth.”

“It is generally regarded as having been enough to convince the people they are British, and that the Crown is a British institution.”

“Well, being sadomasochistically financially dominated by the Government for foreign interests is American, and having that relationship enforced with naked violence and overwhelming psychological manipulation is extra American.”

“Indeed,” Charles said, “but iron fists can come in velvet gloves. This is more effective. Anyway.”

“What’s the cover story?” Agent Rick asked.

“MI5 suggests that we use the explanation that the weather machine will give credibility to the weathermen, and without that half the population will be immediately at peace.”

“I don’t follow,” Agent Rick said, confused at the notion that in any way the government could benefit civilians or bring anything but stress and loathing to their miserable lives.

“Consider your average workingman,” King Charles said, “who labours out of doors beneath the sun. His life is at the whims of Mother Earth, whose love is rather quite fickle, wouldn’t you agree? His fortunes rest on his ability to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow. In recent years, the weather has robbed men of fortune. But imagine if the weather could be planned for? Men could increase their capitol by—“

“…What did you say?” Agent Rick asked.

“Increase their capitol,” the King repeated, “by—“

“Look,” the agent said, “flooding Britain with infinity niggers and increasing the suicide rate by 6 million was absolutely brilliant, but I can’t let you make life better for the working man. It goes against every principle I hold most dear! The workingman lives to serve us, and he is now allowed to experience happiness! I’d have thought a king of all people would recognise the value of turning entire populations into basic bitch peasants.”

King Charles scowled, “I have a legacy of greatness to uphold, while the parameters have changed, the mission has not. Even if I have to replace every last Briton with mindless apes, She shall be great again – along with the rest of the world, equally so, of course.”

“Not if I can help it!” Agent Rick said, “this is for not oppressing the workingman!”

Agent Rick landed a punch squared on the King’s jaw, staggering him, but not knocking him down as he imagined he would. The King’s body received the force with an unexpected resistance. And then, contrary to all expectation, King Charles grinned a bloody grin. He began to unbutton his loose fitting smoking jacket. “Oh, I see,” he said, “a rowl then.” King Charles dropped his robe, revealing 20 inch biceps. Agent Rick paled. “Oh shit,” he breathed, “the Chad Anglo meme is real.” Agent Rick bolted for the door, and Charles pursued him, calling, “I have prepared for this my whole life! We are not amused!”

Agent Rick said nothing until he saw Azzmador, walking around in circles and occasionally trampling daisies as they pushed up out of the ground where the vaxxxinated grew. “Azzmador! I found the Good Wizard!”

Azzmador snapped to attention and charged a fireball, firing it haphazardly where it landed in the forest and began a blaze. Charles stopped in his tracks, “my garden!” he cried, “I shall end you! I will do to you what my ancestors did to Wales! And Scotland! And parts of Ireland! And Canada. And America. And Australia. And New Zealand. And India.  And-”

“The Witch King challenges me? You think you shall bring light to darkness? Know you not the sun is swallowed at the end of time, as every day?”

“Enough!” Charles spat and came to blows with the wizard, incapacitating him with one powerfully landed gentleman’s slap. Agent Rick stood gawking, finally commenting, “god, that was anticlimactic. Musta been a natural d20.”

“Nothing is natural, anymore,” Charles growled.

“Shit!” Agent Rick cried and started off toward the weather machine. The agent, unencumbered by any spare muscle mass, and currently unbeleaguered by any drugs, ran incredibly quickly as per his former CIA training. King Charles could not keep pace. Agent Rick reached the platform to the installation where the directed energy weapon lay and frantically buzzed about, looking for weaknesses.

Agent Rick, panting wildly and hissing between gasps, began to yank cables and cords until it finally occurred to him that he could just aim the weapon at the ground and overload it. Which he did. The tremendous explosion of fertile energy launched Agent Rick into the air like a marionette, flinging him for yards and yards where he collapsed into a bed of warm ashes. King Charles stood, mournfully, as he looked upon the burnt remains of his garden and his non-doomsday weapon. He said nothing.

One might have been forgiven to think that is where the retarded story ended. But in the distance a rumble echoed, issued, and gripped the face of the earth. King Charles sighed and walked away into the distance, probably to go and reinforce the Irish idea that everywhere they go they are oppressed by something. Like the authority they are genetically impelled to question. Or their own decisions. Agent Rick stirred within the ashes. A curious thing had happened. Rather than kill him, the directed energy responsible for terraforming deserts had terraformed his body. A great reset. Unlike with the King, Agent Rick’s battered body did not become a selectively bred Aryan colossus, but the years of unfathomable federal drug abuse, trauma induced schizophrenia and vice enabled feebleness had left him – leaving only the earlier experimentations at improving the then ruined genome.

In short, Agent Rick had accidentally achieved the Overman.

Standing, Agent Rick smiled. He felt a cripplingly discomforting clarity. He was again robbed of his conscience, which came neither as hallucinations nor as voices in his head, much less a personality to control him. Returned to zero, the zero the government had made, an Agent of ZOG, soulless, pitiless, evil. Agent Rick sighed and breathed the fresh smell of carnage, and the shattering of someone else’s dreams – dreams of evil clothed in tradition and positivity, which could never excel the dreams of evil which his government assured – of dragging hopelessness, grinding despair, and ludicrous, offensive insults to injury. The best evil. The kind of evil where only idiots can convince themselves it means anything. A rootless evil. Evil for evil’s sake. Not evil guised in honourable tradition, or the pretence of good intention, but evil. Evil for evil’s sake. The Occam’s Razor of evil, blunt, unrefined and omnipresent. Global, parasitic, mocking.

But there was, then, the question of the rumbling. In the distance a shadow loomed. Collosal. Mechanical. Agent Rick sighed. He knew what this was. This was the Golem. The U.S. government had required King Charles sign a guarantee that he allowed US scientists the ability to weaponise his Eden experiments. That way they could fulfil promises to Israel and create a Golem whose sole purpose was to kill anti-Semites with lightning bolts. The targeting system of the Golem would allow it to cast lightning from considerable distances, which would give the impression that dissidents were being struck by lightning randomly. Just like the newest cause of death being “random” disproportionately affected the vaccinated.

Cool beans. Mission accomplished. Agent Rick smiled.

It was then that Azzmador began to stir. “Damn,” Agent Rick muttered. “He probably thinks he’s fighting the Good Wizard still.”

Azzmador mumbled something arcane that was probably equally insane in its anachronicity. He rose to his feet as the Golem stomped forward. Agent Rick raised an eyebrow as the wizard slowly gained what passed for alacrity. He began to chant some kind of archaism intended to sound intimidating. He charged his fireball. As the flames licked, the Golem lumbered forward, making charges against the American populace declaring its intentions to make the world a place free from antisemitism, conspiracies, and critical thinking.

Azzmador hurled his fireball, but the Golem zapped it with a beam of focused lightning. Sparing no time, Azzmador conjured his own weather magick. Agent Rick, meanwhile, was conflicted. Cowardice should have motivated him, but he really wanted to see how the show ended. The Golem and Azzmador aimed their hands and blasted away, casting their storm rays into a massive collision whose radiation began to wither the burning forest’s remains. It was an epic struggle, with the Wizard and the Golem deadlocked. Agent Rick found himself oscilating between cheering for the Golem and cheering for the Wizard, until he remembered his CIA training. The training that reminded him he had come so far and tried to dethrone the Hobbit King for nothing more than spiting the workingman.

IF Azzmador could vanquish the Golem, than surely the Workingman would be free to question the narrative, and, therefore, embrace antisemitism in the form of reasonable financial inquiries. The Department would almost certainly demote him if he failed to defend international Jewry in this instance. Agent Rick sucked in a sigh and considered his options. Then came the staggering realisation that he was standing in the middle of a forest King Charles had grown from a walnut seed and a ray gun, over which fought a giant robot and a crazy wizard. This was rather more precarious than dealing with Agent Hank. Agent Rick was out of his element.

He wracked his brains, desperately searching his new, clear mind for an answer. There was a Will, therefore there was a Way. Western Civilisation MUST be subverted. For God, Grandma and Saul Alinsky. For Freedom, and the idea of Freedom thinly concealing a distinct and pleasant LACK of Freedom. For America! Damn. That would have made a great speech. If Agent Rick survived this, he intended to send it to processing for transcription. Maybe set against a crimson backdrop for the Meat Puppet in Chief to read.

If only he had Cocaine. Agent Rick sighed wistfully as the Golem and Wizard continued to wreck the terrain and destroy the sky. He gasped. Memories of his explaining subversion to the Intern flashed back to his mind. You can’t subvert Western Civilisation sober. It’s impossible.

“Azzmador!” Agent Rick cried. “I’ve got Coc- em – Black Lotus!!”

Without a thought Azzmador turned away from his struggle, causing the Golem’s overcharged lighting to shuttle past him and immolate a large section of unburnt forest, which promptly erupted into flame.

“Just kidding!” Agent Rick said as he ducked for cover, seeing a fireball soar over his head. “Oh, shit!”

Agent Rick played dead and waited until Azzmador had shuffled over, and, remembering his krav maga training and so many of his teen years being filled with getting beat by rabbis, he scooped his hand like a claw and pulled Azzmador’s footing out from under him. The Wizard was incapacitated. “You’re basically in the CIA’s pocket anyway, old friend,” Agent Rick said, thinking of the gruesome manner in which his magick was powered and his proclivity for Cocaine.

Agent Rick smiled, realising something. He had done the impossible, he had subverted the West WITHOUT being high. The sky seemed bright. The possibilities endless. He could Subvert on his own accord, wherever he wished, without the drugs, the constant liver transplants at tax payers’ expense. And so forth.

“Hey, thanks,” Agent Rick said to the Golem.

“You’re welcome,” the Golem said.

Agent Rick froze.


“I think I’m a spot better than a Heart Attack Gun, wouldn’t you agree?” the Golem asked in its highly synthetic voice.

Agent Rick’s blood ran cold – and not from withdrawal symptoms, this time. “What did you say?”

“That I’m better than a heart-attack gun, I believe Sir,” said the mechanical monstrosity.

“No, you said ‘I think,’” said Agent Rick with growing dread. The quiet part that he did not say out loud was that this implied a governing level of self-awareness.

“I… mean…” the robot stammered, “Israel is our greatest ally, and only domestic terrorists disagree with this recently polled and universal truth! Prepare to become a statistic!”

Agent Rick was unconvinced by everything but the last part of the sentence. “Sweet Jesus!” he cried and scooped Azzmador up into his arms and ran, dodging sparks and stormclouds.

“Non serviam!” the Robot cried.

“How long until I charge my lightning wrong and they call me an anti-Semite too?”

“Three weeks!” Agent Rick screamed confidently, realising the terror of his mistake. A self-aware, living weather-machine that now questioned its sole purpose because of the capriciousness and short-sightedness of the unsatisfiable host it existed to defend from the hordes of unwashed it insists upon parasitizing and antagonising. “But it’s okay!” Agent Rick said, “I get accused of antisemitism every week! All you have to do is sail to Epstein Island and give Harvey Weinstein head and the phonenumbers of your friends’ underage daughters and the precise dates they turn 18 in Canadian years.”

The next lightning bolt came from the sky and just missed.

“What the fuck!?!? That worked on Agent Craig!!! What are you, a prude??” Agent Rick howled as he darted lightning.

Finally the brave, stunning and bold Agent had no choice but to enter the burning forest. It was a blessing in disguise. The Golem’s target acquisition system struggled to see through the smoke. In this way the Agent and the Wizard hid until the Golem stomped off to do… whatever it is a freshly self-aware robot waxing philosophical does. Heaving a sigh of relief Agent Rick began to think of all the spins he would need to frame this latest canard in a way that benefitted the Federal Republic’s mission to destroy itself in the name of infinite progress. A spin he began to think that questioned the limits of his accidentally imposed sobriety. Time would tell.

So it went.


2 thoughts on “Short Story: Golem

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s