Ch.133Act 1: Ch.9 – The King Sleeps in Carcosa (2)

“Cigarette smell. Hmm! Camel, I see. Tastes truly never change, do they?”

Drugstore reached into his coat. Crayfield opened the drawer and aimed his revolver.

But what emerged from the developer’s coat was a brown paper box. When he opened it, cigars as thick as fingers were neatly arranged inside. Drugstore picked one up, placed it in his mouth, then flicked his finger to light a flame at the tip of his index finger. After lighting the cigar, he waved his hand once and the flame immediately went out.

“Would you like one? It’s quite a premium brand.”

When Crayfield remained silent, Drugstore inhaled the cigar deeply into his lungs. Crayfield placed the revolver on the desk and lit a Camel.

“Sure? Then leave one there.”

“Surprising.” Drugstore held the cigar between his fingers and gently shook it to tap off the ash.

“I thought you’d refuse to take it even if offered.”

“It’s your recommendation, isn’t it? You may not have an ounce of talent or originality, but you do have a precise eye for recognizing ‘the real thing.’ You’ve always lived steeped in greed, envy, and inferiority. If someone like you recommends a cigar, it must taste good, right?”

Drugstore stopped breathing for a moment. “Such unfair…”

“First. You don’t light a cigar like a cigarette, pressing it right against the flame. You hold it at a distance, taking your time to let just the foot catch fire slowly. Sometimes you even rotate it slightly to ensure it burns evenly inside and out.

Second. While it’s fine to inhale deeply into your lungs, generally with cigars, the focus is on experiencing the smoke, so you concentrate it on your nose and tongue. You don’t wastefully blow it all away like you do.

Third. You didn’t even cut the cigar. To my eyes, it’s like watching someone drink from a cola bottle without removing the cap.

Finally, fourth. The cigar brand you’re smoking was first established in 1935. It’s currently 1929. Let me make one request. If you’re going to distort the timeline anyway, leave a smartphone behind while you’re at it.”

Crayfield tapped his Camel. Ash fell to the floor. A vein bulged on Drugstore’s forehead.

“Oh, Drugstore. You’re not first-rate. You know how to appear first-rate and walk in their shadows, that’s all. You climb onto their shoulders and shout that you’re the best. What you want is recognition that ‘I am great.'”

“But I’ve succeeded.” Drugstore put down his cigar. Judging by the slight trembling at the tip, he seemed quite agitated.

“That’s because there are too many bastards like you in the world. People who want fakes that look real rather than the real thing. You represent the seediness of such people. Where else can you find a hero who reveals his pathetic self as is and still gains money and fame?”

“Is that wrong?”

“No. No, it’s not wrong. But… trying to cover up your impoverished philosophy by piggybacking on genuinely sound philosophy. That’s rather ugly. I’m saying you’re truly ‘ugly.’ Being ugly is repulsive, but it’s not wrong, is it?”

“Mr. Sagan. I expected a more gentlemanly response, but I’m rather disappointed…”

“Really? Then how about we settle this like gentlemen with a duel? Wait, where was my handkerchief…”

“Let’s not act like savages.” Drugstore extended his finger toward Crayfield. “And if you interrupt me one more time…”

Drugstore raised his finger threateningly. Crayfield gave him a rather gentle smile. It was the smile he usually reserved for difficult clients.

“It hurts my heart! I quite like you, but you seem to hate me so much. So, Mr. Sagan, I’ll give you a choice. I’ll let you leave right here. I’ll let you return to your normal life. You just need to do two things. Simple matters.”

“Oh? What are they? If I add three more things like writing your name with my ass, would that do it?”

“Nothing so crude.” Drugstore roughly opened his lapel.

“One. Post an apology on the forum for all your insults toward me. When I think about how much ridicule I received because of that… absurd ending in your previous installment! Two, admit defeat and stop interfering with the player. Stop meddling in the affairs of this world, I mean.”

“You were the one who asked me to ‘review’ it.”

“That’s enough. No, it’s too much. Thanks to you, this game has sold 300 million copies. In each of those 300 million games, there are 300 million Crayfields, all being as stubborn as you are now, all creating the same obstacles. But it’s time someone put an end to it. We marketed it well with the concept of ‘an unbeatable game,’ but now it’s time to shift to ‘how it can be beaten.'”

“Look at you. You truly have the qualities of a merchant and a con man. That’s your nature, are you ashamed of it? You make good money and you’re popular. I much prefer this version of you to one pretending to have some half-baked philosophy.”

“You’re twisting my goodwill.”

“Sewage shouldn’t be drunk as is. It needs to go through purification.”

Drugstore sighed deeply. I could clearly see his shoulders trembling slightly. He tried to take a puff of the cigar, but the fire had already gone out. He momentarily frowned and then tossed the cigar to the floor. The smile disappeared from Crayfield’s face.

“That’s the answer to your first question.”

Crayfield grabbed the revolver and pulled the trigger without hesitation. The bullet lodged in the center of Drugstore’s forehead. He didn’t make a sound. He just apathetically wiped away the blood flowing down the bridge of his nose.

“Second.”

The second bullet hit his left chest. The rose attached to his lapel shattered. Blood bloomed like petals around the bullet hole in place of the fallen flower petals.

“Here’s the third answer.”

This time it was his right thigh. Blood trickled down his pants, but not a drop touched the floor.

“Fine.” Drugstore exhaled softly. “If that’s your wish…”

Bang! This time the bullet pierced his philtrum. In an instant, Drugstore’s gums and upper front teeth were fully exposed.

“What are you doing?”

“That’s for the cigar.” Crayfield pointed the gun barrel at the cigar on the floor. “How dare someone who knows nothing treat a cigar like that?”

The sound of stomping feet could be heard from the floor above and next door. It was the sound of tenants rushing out at the sudden gunshots. Drugstore grimaced and flicked his finger again. His clothes became pristine again as if nothing had happened. He picked up the cigar from the ground. After glaring at Crayfield for a moment, he threw the brown paper box from his coat onto the desk.

“I’ll give you a week to prepare. Do everything you can. I’ll make my own preparations and come back. I’ll show you how I can break you.”

“Ah. Using cheat keys like you just did? Or is it admin mode? You can’t beat me with that head of yours.”

Crayfield tapped his forehead with his index finger.

“No. Doing that wouldn’t complete the challenge. I’ll break you with pure intellect. Feel what it’s like to be defeated by skill, ‘jealous developer.'”

Drugstore disappeared. The landlady from downstairs came stomping up the stairs.

“Crayfield! How dare you fire a gun in my building!”

“There was a rat running around,” Crayfield grinned slyly. “Look. Not a single hole in the wall.” Mrs. Graham examined the wall. Only after confirming that there truly were no holes in the wall did the burly landlady’s anger subside a bit.

“Anyway. You can’t scare the other tenants! Set a mousetrap instead. What if you had hit your assistant standing next to you!”

“I would never shoot my assistant. There’s that level of trust between us. Isn’t that right, assistant?”

The landlady went up and down the corridor and stairs, sending the other tenants back. Crayfield took scissors from the drawer, cut the cigar, lit it as he had described, and rolled the smoke around in his mouth.

“300 million Crayfields?” I looked at him.

“Didn’t I tell you? I’m part of this world.” Crayfield wasn’t fazed at all. “They put me in a beta service state. Naturally, every time a copy of the game is sold, I get duplicated too. But this John Crayfield, also known as forum moderator Sagan, is always the same man. Those bastards. It feels good to know they’re doing well.”

Seeing that I was still frozen, Crayfield smiled good-naturedly.

“No. Why are you so stiff? Like a child who just heard Santa doesn’t exist? When you think about it, that guy’s nonsense is similar to saying there’s a world somewhere exactly like this one! They call it the multiverse, don’t they?

So what? What difference does it make? In a completely different world, Crayfield might be the king of a harem and an embodiment of tireless virility. But such things don’t affect my existence in the slightest.”

“Are you really not bothered by this at all?”

I even stammered, but Crayfield approached me and patted my shoulder lightly.

“My friend. I prefer being here, exchanging jokes with you, over being Crayfield the virility king. If I stand above all other Crayfields in the world, it’s because I have friends like you. So get up and let’s head to Arkham. We have a week before he comes as a player, so we need to hurry.”

Before leaving, I looked at the wall clock. The Doomsday Clock was pointing to 12.

* * * * *

Instead of hastily going to the dock, I looked into various transportation options. Arthur Black’s efforts to revitalize tourism seemed to have paid off somewhat, as the number of regular ships to Kingsport had increased considerably. Fortunately, transportation from Kingsport to Arkham had also increased. They said that when the route to Innsmouth was cut off, they flocked to the more profitable routes.

For a moment, I thought about calling Aurora. Of course, I didn’t intend to impose without paying. If I paid for transportation, I could probably take a speedboat directly to Arkham… but remembering the pain she had experienced on the streets of Arkham, that thought vanished.

I hailed a taxi on the street and headed to the dock. I took a regular ship to Kingsport and waited for the bus. Kingsport’s gloomy stillness remained the same, but there was a certain vibrancy at the bus stop. More people came and went, the stop had been extended, and there was even a makeshift canopy to provide shade from the sun.

Finally, the bus to Arkham arrived. This bus, at least, remained unchanged over time. The dusty roads, the desolate land, the warehouses converted into offices for insurance companies and securities firms—it all looked the same. Even the people boarding the bus were identical.

Their shabby suit collars were stained with grime. Their hats hadn’t been brushed in ages and were covered in dust. Their shoes were worn out, and their faces were filled with frustration. The only difference was their hands. Where once they had the roughness characteristic of farmers, with dirt under their fingernails, now they were softer, thinner, with protruding joints.

Among them was a familiar face—the rough-looking farmer who had introduced insurance to me and Crayfield.

“How are things these days? You might not remember, but I met you on this bus a few months ago.”

“Sorry. I meet so many people every day.” He smiled affably.

“Are you still selling insurance?” He nodded readily at my question.

“Of course. Now even retirees and grandmothers knitting by the fireplace are getting into stocks. The stock market is booming daily. Have you heard about the speculation tax?”

“Yes. It’s a warning that they’ll tax speculative funds, isn’t it?”

“Ha. Those government types just can’t stand to see common folk getting rich. If you look closely, they’re no different from bald eagles. Just when you start putting on some weight, they swoop in and grab you. But what’s there to worry about? The stock market keeps going up, and if we keep building these steps one by one, we’ll eventually reach the sky. Don’t you think?”

Was it waiting for him to finish speaking? Rain began to fall outside the bus window. The few drops quickly turned into a fierce downpour. The bus driver grumbled about having to drive through muddy roads, and the rough farmer muttered about not having an umbrella. Dark clouds gathered with an ominous intensity.