C1P2 - In Which the Story Begins

The inside of the store appeared to have been there for years, decades even. The walls were lined with various oddities. Desks were piled high with ancient leather bound books, containing what Robert imagined would be bogus spells that teenage Wiccans would believe work. Thick layers of dust covered clear jars that contained strange animals with multiple heads or extra legs. Robert was in disbelief that the store could look so old, and thought to himself that the owner must truly be a wizard to have set up so fast. He imagined a Michael Gambon like man with a bag that was bigger on the inside waltzing in and magicking everything out of the bag, humming to an unknown beat.

Robert walked to the hand in the window, he imagined a voice calling to him from some deep cavern, imploring him to pick it up. He wanted very much to, he told the voice, but he was scared. It didn't make sense to Robert why he should be afraid, it's just a hand after all, what's so frightening about a hand? As he approached the hand, the voice faded away, and a new vexation came over him. Images filled his head. Images of metal men marching in lines, in factories. Images of great and terrible destruction. Images that he didn't quite understand the meaning of. All Robert knew was that he had to touch the hand. He reached out to take it from it's cradle, visions of metal men bombarding him, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"You can look, but you can't touch, said the bat to the blind man." Said a man's voice behind Robert.
"What?" Robert turned to look at the man in puzzlement.
"The sign," said the slightly overweight man "It says don't touch, friend."

And so it did. There was a sign that Robert could swear wasn't there a minute ago that actually said, "DON'T TOUCH, FRIEND". He noticed the man was wearing sandals, sweatpants, a baggy Hawaiian shirt, and a long necklace made of thick silver beads. The man had a beard to draw attention away from his obvious hair loss that was beginning. Robert thought that in another life, this man could be Billy Connolly's brother.

"Sorry, I was just wanting to get a closer look at the, um, hand you have in the window." As he said the words, they sounded wrong and stupid.
"Well, that's an interesting piece. It's supposedly called Ahndrud Rossen." The r's were rolled and he pronounced 'Ahn' breathily. "It once belonged to a man who lived all alone in a cottage in Italy. He claimed he was waiting for a man to come and claim it, and that it would unlock some great vault. The story's great and all that, but if you ask me, I think the guy was a few cannolis short of a pasticceria."
"A what?" Even as Robert asks, he already knows, yet he doesn't know how.
"A pasticceria. You know, the Italian word for bakery."
"I'm sorry, I didn't know."
"You know what your problem is, guy? You apologize to much. Loosen up, stop being to stiff."
"Uh, huh." Robert didn't know how to respond to this brash, unsolicited advice. "Well, I was wondering, how much for it? The hand."
"Since it's a one-of-a-kind-piece kind of thing, I'd say three hundred bucks."

Robert thought that was outrageous, but he had to have the hand. He couldn't stop thinking about it. His mind raced, wondering if he should try to haggle or not. The contours of the back of the hand were somehow beckoned him even more, filling his mind with nothing but desire. If he had been thinking clearly, he would have noticed that the hand had turned ever so slightly since he entered.

Robert decided to attempt to haggle, as his more economical side preserved over his intoxicated passion. He assumed the stance of someone on the edge of decision and asked, "It it articulated at all? I would want to be able to change it for that price."
"Well, if it is, I haven't been able to make it."
"How about one-fifty?" The proprietor almost seemed offended.
"Two-fifty, and that's pushing it."
"Two hundred?"
"Two-thirty's the lowest I can go." The man shot out his arms in a clear sign that he was adamant.

Defeated, Robert accepted. He asked the man if he could put it in a box of some sort, lying about a fictional wife who would be the recipient of the hand. In reality, Robert was already having second thoughts about purchasing a metal hand. His desire to own it outweighed his trepidations, however. With the hand paid for, Robert left the store in a hurry, fearful that his little detour would cause him to be late to work. Glancing behind, he saw the store-owner waving at him, with a knowing smile on his face. Robert gave it no thought.

For the rest of the drive to work, Robert kept glancing at the package in the passenger seat. He imagined the faint faraway voice again. This time it was practically begging him to look at it, to touch it. Robert saw himself doing so, and could see the hand clamping onto his wrist, and crawling up his arm to rest on his shoulder like Thing from The Addams Family. Caught in his daydream, he didn't notice the car had drifted slightly into a different lane, until a loud honk brought him to full attention. He drove in complete silence until he pulled into the parking lot for Megas Incorporated, where he worked as an accountant.

Robert parked his car, got out, and started to walk away. He was halfway to the door when he heard a voice beckon him back and take the box containing the hand with him. Robert thought about it for a brief moment, and decided whatever force was suggesting him to take the hand in with him must be right. Walking back to his car, he felt a growing sense of urgency, as if his life depended on keeping the hand with him. But that was silly, and he banished the thought. Although, he thought to himself, walking back in the building with that package did make him feel  more alive than he had felt in a long time.

End Chapter 1

C1P1 - In Which the Story Begins

Chapter 1 - In Which the Story Begins

His friends would call him smart and forgettable. His enemies would call him, "Wait, who are we talking about, again?" Robert, while being smart, never had any desire to do anything with his almost eidetic memory. With very few likes, one might get the impression that Robert didn't have any dreams. This was in fact his one vice; he liked to day dream.

Robert didn't just day dream, he envisioned himself scaling great mountains, sailing the high seas with his very own band of merry men, and fighting mercenaries on tropical islands. He knew that he would never do any of those things, but still, it was nice to think about. And think about it, he did. His job took such little effort, that he only spent around two hours actually performing it. The rest of the time was spent in his worlds he created.

Day after day, Robert would go into work, sit at his desk and listen to Eddie, who sat across from him, complain about whatever sport was currently happening. Robert would nod as Eddie would inform him that the bastards on the Ravens offensive line need to get in a severe accident. Eddie never realized that Robert would always respond to his woes with the same phrases. In times of distress, Robert would say, "That's how it always goes," or, "Isn't that just the truth?". In times of joy, Robert would inform Eddie, "That's what it's all about!" Robert had no idea what teams were where or what Eddie saw in continuing to watch these games that was probably the cause of his aneurysm, of which Eddie also complained about.

On an average Monday morning in Spring, Robert woke up with his alarm clock gently coming to life with the sound of The Beatles. Robert's eyes stayed closed as the instrumental opening of Sgt. Pepper flew into his ears. He opened his eyes, as he always did on "It was twenty years ago today..." He slid out of bed, and walked to his sink while he was introduced to the act he's known all these years. Brushed his teeth while the Lonely Hearts Club Band informed him that they'd like to take him home with them. He used the restroom after Billy Shears made his debut, and was finished by the time they finally concluded that, yes, they do indeed get by with a little help from their friends. Robert had spent the last three months timing his morning routine to the Sgt. Pepper album. He loved concept albums, and spent months synchronizing his morning routine to a storyline in lyrical form. He had previously done so with Ziggy Stardust, and he felt that he connected to Bowie's character a little more than he connected to real people.

Robert entered the shower as he was invited to imagine newspaper taxis, and left it as a day begins on a Wednesday morning at five o'clock. He made breakfast as the singer ponders if he will still be needed and fed. He finished eating and has nothing to say but it's O.K. He walked to the door, turned around and bowed while the band informed him that they'd like to turn him on. Robert turned on his heels opened his door to the garage, and waited until just after the last chord ended. His car jumped to life, and he headed off to work.

He took the same route to work as he always did, beside the same cars, by the same buildings. Robert drove past a storefront he had driven past hundreds of times; it never caught his eye before, but he remembered it as a small hardware store. The hardware store went out of business when a Lowe's was built in the area months ago, so it had been empty. On this morning, apparently the new owners had moved in and  set up enough over the weekend to be open and selling their wares. A glint of light shone from the window, causing him to stare at the beckoning talon of a metal hand. Someone in a car behind him honked their horn, snapping him to attention that the light was green. Robert had never seen an occult shop before, and was, surprisingly to himself, intrigued to go in. He circled the block and parked just outside the new store called The God Bothered Snail. He looked at the metal hand in the window closer, the light catching every crease on it's surface from it's cradle that held it upright. It looked like a real hand, as if it was going to come to life, crash through the glass and grab Robert's neck. He rubbed his neck with his own hand, gripping harder than he meant to, transfixed on the curious body part in the store. It curled gently like a hand laid flat at rest, each finger bowing lower than the last, cascading in an arch of simple beauty. The hand was at an angle that made the fore and middle fingers seem to be beckoning him as a sultry lover would do late at night. He gave in to the temptation and entered the store.