Trickster

~

TRICKSTER

A mini opera

SUMMARY:

A fading widow has been exchanging love letters with a stranger – letters laced with poison. Slowly the paper romance takes over her body, causing strange dreams and hallucinations. Yet with each exchange she feels herself becoming younger and more alive, even as she marches toward death.

__________________________________________________________________

 

Prologue

The scene is completely dark. We hear only voices – a youngish man, and a woman of about sixty.

WOMAN:

“So it's you.

MAN:

“Yes.”

WOMAN:

The one she claims wrote those letters to her.”

MAN:
(perplexed) “I’ve met her only once. Never even knew her name.”

WOMAN:

“Never?”

MAN:

“She said I wrote her letters.

She said that I’ve been writing to her for three years.”

__________________________________________________________________

1: Dancing

The darkness parts from the scene to reveal a dusty street, and a fifty-year-old lady walking down it. Her lush wavy hair is slightly askew from neglect, her pale lips smiling dreamily. Her fingernails are painted blue.

WIDOW:

Who knows which one of our thoughts are true?

Who knows who writes which words to whom?

Love and life is a tangled loom

When I catch myself dancing with you.

Her hands are fiddling and caressing an envelope. It is made of good paper – thick, textured, and sensual to the touch. She holds it to her nose and sniffs the last of its scent with half-mast eyes.

WIDOW:

Why walk to your fate when you can leap

Why talk to those who cannot understand?

Why reach for reality with eager hands

When the price is much too steep?

I’d rather swim in the endless blue;

I’d rather dance to your words and your wit.

Each word between us is candle-lit

As I catch myself dancing with you.

As she continues into the next stanza, a melodious male voice joins in.

TOGETHER:

I’d rather exist through me and you

And play with words like they’re raindrops and paste

And post each exchange with delicious haste

Till I catch myself dancing with you…

Till I catch myself dancing with you.

Despite the gloom, the scene seems to end on a light and cheerful note. She disappears into the mist with a spring in her step.

__________________________________________________________________

2: Counting Days

The lady reappears, this time in a rather cluttered bedroom. Her back is turned to the viewer. At the wall corners are streaks of colours like dried spilt paint.

WIDOW:

My misfortune must seem strangely intriguing.

The rather-too-polite will say “How very interesting;

What a tragic malady is this so terribly unlucky

Careless yet so plucky poor twice-widowed lady!”

She turns around. The edges of her eyes are streaked with smeared bluish makeup, and it appears she has been scrawling sentences on her arms.

WIDOW:

Will another one come

Before eight thirty-one?

Will his ink touch my lips

Or my dreams be undone?

From a moth-eaten discarded mattress in the corner, a figure emerges. It is vaguely feminine and its skin that appears to be of the same pattern as the mattress.

MATTRESS FIGURE:

Has he written today?

Has he been as persistent?

WIDOW:

No, not then nor today.

Why can’t he be more consistent?

MATTRESS FIGURE:

Be patient my love.

She goes to the walls and absently brushes the streaks of crusted colour with her fingers. The paint begins to peel in strips of its own volition. The effect is that of the walls crumbling down.

WIDOW:

He colours the edges,

The lifeless grey edges.

He spins life into me

Paints light into me

But now it’s been two days

Yesterday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Greyday…

TOGETHER:

…Neither Thursday nor Friday will be

Appropriate for this completely

Clandestine affair that we must

Live through paper laced with lust

And scented with our hopeless breath

And carried forward until death!

She throws herself back on her sagging bed and sighs, closing her eyes. The mattress figure disappears into dust.

________________________________________________________________

3: Paper Lover

When she wakes, she is in an empty field. Tendrils of fog surround her. As she rubs her eyes, an eight-legged horse runs past her and mysteriously disappears into the fog.

The blue of her fingernail polish seem to have crept up her fingers, so it looks as if half her hands have been dipped in blue ink. She holds a letter and a crumpled envelope in her hand. A male voice (the same as heard in the first scene) is heard:

MAN:

Your fingers are well-shaped, but bitten

They’re painted blue with my ink

Your nose makes me think of a kitten

I once had when I was sixteen

Finally, we get to see him. Her lover emerges from the fog. He looks about thirty, thirty-five; there is something indefinably ageless about him. He has finely made bones and strong, graceful hands.

MAN:

You’re lonely, but not anymore.

Touch me with paper and pen.

That perfume you wear is distracting

And you wear it for no other men.

Breathe me in,

Breathe me in

Let me into your skin

Let me touch you where you touch me

Where no one can see

The glow of what looks like aurora borealis casts them in a lovely multi-hued glow as they embrace.

TOGETHER:

Let me in,

Let me in

Let me breathe into you

Lick you shut, tear you open

I love you; it’s true.

MAN:

Till the end of our time together

I’ll be your faithful paper lover.

He holds her, then seems to melt away into the fog, out of sight and out of reach of her grasping hands.

Sighing, she drops as if to sit on the ground – but instead hits a bed; the same worn bed in her own cluttered room. The surreal misty landscape has disappeared.

WIDOW:

Your words could be lies,

and I would never know

Piercing me with satin envelopes.

I await your reply;

Goodbye.

She sprawls on the bed, holding the letter close to her.

 

__________________________________________________________________

4: I Will If I Want To

The lady is walking through the same street in the first scene – but it is not the same. The road appears to pulsate. The walls throb and grow lips, all of them singing a haunting song in perfect harmony.

LIPS:

Don’t go where you can’t see

Don’t swim where you can’t wade

The water’s getting deeper

And you’re a little bit afraid

WIDOW:

Stop!

You’re holding me back now

Stop!

Don’t you dare tell me how

I should live and breathe.

My life has been lived beneath

Those who ruled me.

Now I start to see

You were only ever here

To feed off me and my fear.

I will kneel to whom I want

Don’t tell me if I can, or can’t.

The lips on the wall sink back into the brick surface. The bricks turn into slips of paper that flake off, flying all over, some landing at her feet. She catches a few intermittently as she strides on.

WIDOW:

I will talk to strangers, so don’t tell me not to

I will dance with danger if I bloody want to.

Living means dying with every breath

So let me live. I do not fear death.

From afar the echoes of her mystery man’s voice beckon to her. As this happens, the eight-legged horse from the misty landscape gallops past.

MAN:

I’m cold.

I feel you burn

Lend me your fire.

As the world and its roots

grow deeper,

You and I will remain

Together.

________________________________________________________________

5: Liberation

The street and its walls are drowned in murky dimness. The man’s voice cuts through the dark, full of longing and conviction.

We see the lady sitting in the pool of blackness; around her are ever-moving tendrils of pink and electric-blue. More blue runs down her eyes, her lips are stained green, and her arms bear bruise-like shades.

MAN:

Let the fire run through your veins

Let the ink run and colour your dreams

You will return. You will wait for me

In the end you will see

All I can be.

Overtones of contempt infuse his voice. She is confused, but no less attracted to him. She seems to acknowledge the truth of his words, her desire for abandon and loss of control.

MAN:

It's a natural state.

You chase degradation

It's not weakness, just want

You crave subjugation.

It's freedom from fear and from trembling joy

It's the liberation of being someone else's toy.

In the background, figures in multi-hued prismatic clothing dance and writhe as if trapped by invisible bonds.

MAN:

The terror and tears you left behind

The hidden box of cats in your mind

They’re in you. They’re in me.

They’re mine now, your secrets,

Mine to see.

This is the price you pay for release.

The vivid escape that would set you free.

In the midst of his harsh words, he bends down to clasp her hands in his tightly.

MAN:

I did not force you to be here

You came on your own;

Now we are wedded

Never alone.

Now he sinks to his knees and cradles her close to him. His previously cold, fierce face softens in a blink as his voice becomes low and tender.

MAN:

My ink, my words

They turn your lips blue

My form of love, I give to you.

How sad that you must fade so fast;

But paper lovers aren’t meant to last.

He lets her go. Her body sinks to the ground as the poison finally overcomes her. The blue-lidded eyes close. Slowly, the pink and electric-blue tendrils of light darken into grey lightning.

He watches her for a long moment. Then he bends to kiss her lips.  As he stands, sheets of paper fall from the folds of his coat to rain over her.


She is alone now.

We hear her fading voice – her final thoughts – as the scene gradually fades to black. She looks at her fingers, her blue-green veins.

WIDOW:

Living means dying with every breath

Living is but one long-drawn-out ending

I chose you to bring my end to me.

It’s too late, but I finally see

I see what you did to me.

I love you.

Her blue-tinted face appears as a ghostly apparition in the air. It smiles, and sinks into the dark.

_______________________________________________________________

Epilogue

A funeral home. The lady lies on the slab with a sprig of mistletoe in her hands at her wake, as a few close friends and family members gather for goodbyes.

A few feet away, we see the nameless lover. But he does not appear to be intimate with the dead lady, keeping his distance in polite mournfulness.

An elderly woman – a doctor – approaches him as he stands pale and still.

DOCTOR:

“So it’s you. The one she claims wrote those letters to her.”

MAN:

“Yes. Yes I am. It’s unfortunate.” (he sticks his hands in his pockets, then digs them out again) “She really believed all of it.”

DOCTOR:

“Whole-heartedly. I have reports that state she is in a loving relationship. With you.”

MAN:
(frowns) “I’ve met her only once. Never even knew her name.

DOCTOR:

“Never?”

MAN:

“She said I wrote her letters. She said that I’ve been writing to her for three years.”

DOCTOR:

“They were laced with several deadly substances. Do you think she did this herself?”

MAN:

“I don’t know; perhaps. Why she’d want to die slowly of poisoning, is beyond me.”

DOCTOR:

“Maybe she liked the hallucinations. Maybe they made the romance – everything – real. Maybe she didn’t care for living anymore.”

MAN:

“Yes. Perhaps. Nothing to lose, eh.”

The doctor gives him a long look.

DOCTOR:

“They found her personal articles at the scene of the death. There were drawings of a man who looks like you.”

MAN:

“Well, her memory must be sharp. Made vivid by the visions, the poison, no doubt. Like I said, we met but once. (lifts shoulders sympathetically) I’m sorry that she chose me as the subject of her fantasies. I never intended to… .”

DOCTOR:

“Well then. (Sighs) Sorry. I’ll leave you in peace.”

MAN:

“No, no. Not a problem.”

DOCTOR:

“What a strange case. Full of…tangles.

Really. Who knows what tricks the mind can play on us?”

She leaves. The friends and family members say their farewells and slink away. The scene goes dark save for a shaft of light on the dead lady’s body.

The man walks up to the body and lays a kiss on her forehead.

MAN:

“Goodnight, Madam Sigyn.

I’ll see you in Hel.”

His delicate mouth curves in a knife-like smile.

The scene goes dark.

~

They Need To Be Fed

~

THEY NEED TO BE FED

A mini opera

THE CAST

(in order of appearance):

The Cannibal Choir

A dead young man

A government official

A street musician

The Muffin Man

Aminta

____________________________________________________________________

1: Meat!

The night is lit in red and yellow. A choir of singers come forth, gliding angelically in humming in perfect harmony, while one of them recites –

WOMAN:

“On the sixth day, our Maker said:

Let there be war.

Let there be passion.

Let there be dreams and ambition.

Let all of humanity consume one another

Let one man aim to kill the other.

Let the biggest eaters hold

the people’s dreams in their bellies.

Let there be – ”

MAN:

“– MEEAATT!”

The Cannibal Choir breaks into a lively tune over the hearty chords of an old church piano.

CHOIR:

“Which red-blooded lover doesn’t love a pound

of medium-rare over the fire?

Who hasn’t indulged in the flesh fantastic,

Just to stoke their desire?

To immortalise your victory,

It takes the meat of your enemy

Let this be our ode to the glorious flesh

Let this be our tower;

Praise our makers, our warring leaders

For the foes that we devour!”

As they celebrate their dark gods and their joyous feasting, a dead young man wanders into the scene, singing of his murderer. His tragic tune is interspersed with the Cannibal Choir’s.

DEAD MAN:

“She sees them in flowers

She sees them in dreams

She sees them drowned

In sirens and screams

She has little raw things

that she lured away

with her motherly song

And her hungry ways…”

CHOIR:

“A Beacon of Boldness, An Eater of Dreams

Is the ultimate position

To conquer hearts and to cut off heads

Is the height of great ambition

We line up to slay them and feast on their sins

We share the spoils with our kith and our kin”

DEAD MAN:

“She chews up their shadows

She chews up their skin

She chews up their wishes

Till they’re dry and thin.”

CHOIR:

“Aminta, Aminta! Goddess of the hunt!”

DEAD MAN:

“Aminta, my Aminta! Your teeth are shining bright”

CHOIR:

“Aminta, our lady! You’re a lean and lovely sight”

DEAD MAN & CHOIR:

“Aminta, oh Aminta…Tonight is cannibal night!”

The music ends on a big rolling note. Then the scene drops into darkness.

____________________________________________________________________

2: Do You Know The Muffin Man?

A portly, middle-aged government official is sitting at a coffee shop.

He’s getting up and brushing off crumbs, when a scruffy thirty-something man sitting just beside his table greets him with a raised hand. He tips his hat in return. Then the man (who is a street busker) asks him a strange question.

BUSKER:

“Do you know the Muffin Man

Who lives on Drury Lane?”

OFFICIAL:

“I do not know the Muffin Man.

Though I’ve heard he is insane.”

They both get up from their seats, with the official trying to look nonchalant. The labourer senses his curiosity, however, and jabs him lightly in the arm, continuing –

BUSKER:

“Do you know the things he eats

and what his oven holds?”

OFFICIAL:

“How should I know what’s to his taste?

Jelly, perhaps, and rolls.”

His eyes glaze over a little as he says this – the look on his face says, “Mmmm, jelly rolls.” The labourer jabs him again, harder this time, much to his annoyance.

BUSKER:

“It is not jelly; it is not rolls;

It is the meat-crunch of their bones.

The bones, my friend, the bones he plants

Beneath the earth when he’s alone.

Do you hear his piper’s song

That brings the bacon home?

And how hastily the children come

to meet him in his truck?”

The official’s curiosity is replaced by irritation – and an awareness that his break time is well past. He brusquely brushes the busker off.

OFFICIAL:

“Dear man, I’ve better things to do.

And I do not give a fuck.”

The official leaves. The busker throws up his hands up and says to himself, “Stupid ignorant pouf!”

____________________________________________________________________

3: A Humble Man

A large, hungry-looking man takes her place. His lips glisten in an almost obscene manner. His eyes shine with glints of desperation.

MUFFIN MAN:

“It’s a new day, a good day

To take a child and dance the night away

And breathe the smell of untried flesh

And meat that is red, and raw, and fresh.”

He walks along the road, and comes to a large colourful truck hawking ice cream, cupcakes and lollipops. The melody becomes perky, jaunty.

MUFFIN MAN:

“What else can a humble man ask of you?

I give muffins and candy to those who are good

I give nice, sweet things to those who are my food.

I take no cash from any of you.

All I take is a bit of blood.

A bit of warmth. A bit of this,

A bit of that

From the brains you keep

Beneath your hat.”

He sighs, apparently misunderstood. He takes off his hat and hangs it on the truck.

MUFFIN MAN:

“No one uses hope except when hopeless.

No one sees their dreams except in dreams.

No one needs their souls, or so it seems.

So why

Can’t I

Have some?”

The Muffin Man hops onto his truck and rings his bell. “Muffins, cakes, ice cream! Candy and other sweet things!” he calls. He drives off and his shouts fade away.

____________________________________________________________________

4: Ballad of a Streetwalker

Dusk is falling on the sleepy town. As the crowd thins and people head off home, a lone street musician is playing a sweet, simple tune on his harmonica.

BUSKER:

“Well, the dust settles into the road again

And the cafés are ready to close

And it’s all so sweet and yet destined to die

Like a wonderful, withering rose

I see that young woman has just been kissed

By the man that’s she’s loved for so long

Will they ever get out

Of the trap that’s about

To feed on the young and the strong?”

More harmonica, playing a variation of the opening tune. A young boy passes by and drops some coins at his feet.

BUSKER:

“I say, Child, can you sing me a melody

But don’t sing it so loud they can hear

For they’ll sweep off your spirit

And do bad things to it

Then they’ll feast and grow fat on your fear.”

The young boy’s eyes widen; he decides to move on. The busker nods at him and continues singing.

BUSKER:

“Those who dream fullest

Will disappear soonest

While those who think small will survive

And you think it’s unfair,

But do you really care

As long as you wake up alive?

My time may come later than others.

Well, these skinny arms don’t bear much meat.

For I’m just a street-walker

Whose daydreams grow smaller

With each day I sing on the street.”

He plays a brief closing melody; then puts his harmonica away, gathers up the day’s earnings and leaves.

____________________________________________________________________

5: Lullaby

In the shadows, a lean and beautiful young woman (Aminta) appears. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, dreamy. Her lips glisten like one who is fresh from feeding.

AMINTA:

“Hi-i-i-i-igh

Hi-i-i-i-igh

High on the blood of yesterday

Sweet wishes, sweet sleep."

We see her cradling a child who appears to be slumbering deeply against her chest.

AMINTA:

“Sleep deep, for there are no more

Nightmares to be had

I’ll cradle you close to my chest.

Dreams will not turn bad.”

When she lets the child fall back into bed, the little girl’s face has grown slack and grey.

AMINTA:

“Dreams will be devoured

Digested and drowned

Never to be found.

Babies and boys, women and girls

Men and halflings of the world

Close your eyes and open your hearts!

Red, dripping, beautiful hearts

I love you. All of you.

My love is unconditional

Full and ripe, irrational

I am your dark mother.

Come and I will smother

you softly.”

Aminta is joined by the Muffin Man – who, like her, looks full and sated. He licks his lips and sings with her.

MUFFIN MAN:

“We hunt in the dark,

We hunt in the day.

We hunt the hopes”

[TOGETHER]:

“...That you lock away.

Let them sing, let them breathe

Don’t keep them beneath

Your skin where they’ll die.”

AMINTA:

“What you don’t use”

MUFFIN MAN:

“We will;”

AMINTA:

“What you don’t need,”

MUFFIN MAN:

“We’ll kill.”

[TOGETHER]:

“Precious, dark, sweet.

Feed us with meat.

Precious, dark, sweet

In dreams we will meet

In dreams we will meet.”

Aminta and the Muffin Man clasp hands, grow wispy, and start to levitate. Finally they appear to fade into the air, vague and light as a dream.

____________________________________________________________________

5: They Need To Be Fed

As they melt away, the dead young man reappears. He is with a small, curvy young woman who – like him – has left the mortal coil. Their hands are clasped. They enter the scene like a boy and girl making their first appearance at a debutante ball.

The scene lights up to reveal a ballroom decorated with silver bones. Music swells as the Cannibal Choir appear. The young man and woman begin to waltz.

CHOIR:

“They need to be full

with baskets of meat

And sweet, plump things

Tied up tight and neat”

The chorus of voices grow clearer as four undead people join the waltz. One of them is the fat government official, who looks especially bloody (while the rest merely look grey and drained).

CHOIR:

“They need to be brimming

with blood and bones

till they’re bloated and big

and heavy as stones

They need to be fed

They need to be fed

Clothed in your skin

They need to be fed.”

As the song goes on (and grows in volume), more and more people stream in. They all pair up and fall into the dance, waltzing away in this grand purgatory.

CHOIR:

“They must harp on your hopes

They must swallow your dreams

They must be cloaked

in your cries and your screams

They need to be fed

They need to be fed

Decorated in death

They need to be fed.

When all else is silent,

When all else is gone

The Devourers of Dreams

Will rise and reign on

They need to be fed

They need to be fed

Meat-eaters, dreamsweepers

They need to be fed.”

The dark, shadowy edges of the scene brighten to reveal a dark splendid ballroom. At the top of a grand stairway is Aminta and the Muffin Man, holding hands as they descend upon their ghostly monarchy.

AMINTA & MUFFIN MAN:

“Keep us near or keep us far

Think us alive or think us dead

But remember that we are never full.

When dreams go astray, we Will Be Fed!”

This grand finale sees everyone frozen in mid-dance. Then the lights go off until only dim outlines of the still bodies are left.

In the midst of this suspended scene, the busker comes down the stairway and weaves between the undead waltzing couples.

He strikes up a tune in a reprise of his earlier Ballad.

BUSKER:

“My love,

don’t let others steal your thoughts

Or your sweet, careless, flung-about lives

And watch out for those strangers

Who smell sharply of danger

For their teeth and their hearts are like knives.

So this is the story

An overblown melody

Of music, of meat, and of dreams;

And our lives are too brief

To be singing of grief

So let’s close up and sew up the seams.”

He plays his harmonica one last time. As he reaches the final lingering note, the last few lights go out.

-END-

~

First paragraph of a new novella

"What beautiful diamonds you have," he said before slicing off her head. The necklace dropped neatly into his waiting hand, the one not holding a knife. The head thudded quietly onto the ground. Its cushion of black hair was still immaculately coiffed.


~ ~ ~

a story of the rise and fall of two characters over the course of ten nights


.

Drawers

We all have secret lives.

Secret parts of ourselves, kept in secret places, like drawers that reach into the dusty dark and keep your fingers grasping like knobbly ghosts.

People are so surprised when we show these parts of ourselves. But why? Don't we all have hidden sides? Stories to tell that are never told?

Sometimes, these places are not very secret at all. Now we can stow them away all over the web -- where strangers may peruse your pictures and words in the safety of anonymity, while we do the same with theirs.

There is comfort in not knowing each other prior to this instant. There is wonder, delight, disdain, disappointment, nonchalance, ignition, mutual passion -- but we remain strangers. We can enjoy each others' company free of baggage; free of the past. In the moment, nothing else matters.

Secret lives are lonely lives. But in some ways they are also a joy.

To invite someone you know well (in your main sphere of life) into your hidden places is to extend the friendship to intimate new levels. But you don't always have to extend the invitation.

At this secret party, people can invite themselves. They can pop by unnoticed, surprising you, surprising themselves; by thinking that they knew you and finding out they were wrong.

So who leads the party? Who holds the key to the drawers? Was there ever a key?

And who do we trust with it?



~

The Beauty of Sarcasm

Here is a story about a Mexican fisherman; classic chain-email material. It's a story with a great ending. What's just as great is a reply from one of the readers immediately after.

Link here

And the pasted text here:

An investment banker was at the pier of a small coastal Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked. Inside the small boat were several large yellowfin tuna.

The banker complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took to catch them.

The Mexican replied, "Only a little while."

The banker then asked why didn't he stay out longer and catch more fish?

The Mexican said he had enough to support his family's immediate needs.

The banker then asked, "But what do you do with the rest of your time?"

What Matters Most? (aside from bad & cliched stock images?)

The Mexican fisherman said, "I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take siestas with my wife, stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine, and play guitar with my amigos. I have a full and busy life."

The investor scoffed, "I am an Ivy League MBA and could help you. You should spend more time fishing and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat. With the proceeds from the bigger boat, you could buy several boats, and eventually you would have a fleet of fishing boats. "

The investor continued, "And instead of selling your catch to a middleman you would then sell directly to the processor, eventually opening your own cannery. You would control the product, processing, and distribution! You would need to leave this small coastal fishing village and move to Mexico City, then Los Angeles and eventually New York City, where you will run your expanding enterprise."

The Mexican fisherman asked, "But how long will this all take?"

To which the banker replied, "Perhaps 15 to 20 years."

"But what then?" asked the Mexican.

The banker laughed and said, "That's the best part. When the time is right you would announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich. You would make millions!"

"Millions. Okay, then what?" wondered the Mexican.

To which the investment banker replied, "Then you would retire. You could move to a small coastal fishing village where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take siestas with your wife, and stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos."



[And the reply....]

Matthew Gonzalez:

Ohmigod. I never knew how happy I was being dirt poor! Thank you, intenseexperiences.com, for showing me how exciting and fulfilling a life of destitute poverty can really be! Truly, you have shown me the way.

~

for my grandfather

~


Where have I put my memories?
The same place as my dentures?
Where have I put the keys
To those dusty little drawers?

What is the time, familiar face?
I know you; or knew you. Didn’t I?
What year is it, friend or stranger?
Didn’t I use to be a dancer?

Where are the scattered brain cells
My body has forgotten?
Why is my mind locked out of my head?
Is it lost or simply dead?

Each day feels old and used before
Like long, recycled stories.
Where did I put my dentures?
The same place as my memories?



~

Malfunction

The steel maw sung in a discordant bray as the softly lit Down arrow invited passers-by to step in. Innocuous, a slow hulking thing in pain, yet menacing with its mechanical scream.

_