Sunday Archive: Nacho Sasha and the Knights of St. John, conclusion

Nacho Sasha and the Knights of Saint John Part VI: The Very Model of a Modern Major Criminal

I held 16th Century Satan’s head in my lap. He was covered in blood but, of course, none of it was his. It belonged to Gerald Stone, the big bruiser with whom we shared a cell on Violet Block. Remarkably, the thick-headed bugger had yet to go down.

I was fairly certain that 16th Century Satan was faking his current state of unconsciousness in an attempt to remove himself from a somewhat pointless bout of brutal fisticuffs. This left me as his backup, and Stone was lurching towards me with his shattered face, purple eyed and blinking against blood and gore. Satan had landed some serious punches on the old boy, but the big man seemed oblivious to pain. Part of the problem was Satan’s somewhat classicist fighting style, which involved lots of dancing and dodging that made the lumbering Stone look like a confused bull on the verge of death. That wasn’t how you took the big men down, though. 16th Century Satan was a gentleman’s boxer, and his finesse was being outstripped by Stone’s brutish ability to stand against the tide.

I rose as Stone came towards me. The jeering of the other prisoners formed a background roar that enveloped me and propelled me forward. I made eye contact with my hideously deformed manservant and he nodded discretely.

As Stone pulled his giant arm back to deliver a bone-shattering punch, I stood my ground. My manservant pulled off the bottom of the pewter cup from which he had been serving mulled wine all morning and yanked out the Fire Chain he’d pilfered several weeks earlier. I stepped away as the Fire Chain looped through the air and landed heavily on Stone’s face. He had enough time to howl before his head burst into flames. He fell to his knees, the howl turning to a pitiful gurgle, then he collapsed forward and the fire began to sizzle and burn out.

16th Century Satan was up in an instant, dancing and throwing punches. “Yeah, yeah. See, you’d better hold me back!” he barked. “I brought the big man down!”

I was about to signal my manservant to throw the broken mug at Satan’s head when a hushed silence fell over the prisoners. Horns blew in the distance — out in the courtyard. Then closer. Dot-Org horns. The girls were coming.

With panicked cries, the prisoners scattered and ran back towards their cell blocks. It was laundry day and the Dot-Org guards would be throwing their inspection. Of course, every day was laundry day. It was a tedious exercise in torture. Fortunately, my manservant was tickled to have laundry to do. We’d hooked up most of Violet Block. In exchange for the crisp, Navy-like sheets that my manservant somehow produced every morning like clockwork, I earned extra milk and muffin rations from my Block-mates. I don’t know what goes on in the bowels of the prison at night, but my manservant had been taking the extra milk down there and returning with mulled wine every morning. That always impressed Satan, who once tried to follow my manservant…with humorous results. Needless to say, we always passed muster on laundry day.

I returned to my cell and waited patiently for the scantily clad Dot-Orgs to come and check my sheets and behind my ears. Occasionally, they made me recite Shakespeare to them. Mistress Boreana said she liked my voice, even though I found my readings to be clumsy and awkward. Usually I was forced to open jars and check the closets for spiders. Those were much easier tasks and my female captors always seemed appreciative.

I had lived like this, together with my manservant and 16th Century Satan, for nearly a month. Perhaps longer as Satan was operating off of a different calendar.

We had landed in the open field with Lola, 1985 Satan and Lola’s cat, Pitty Pat. That was when I first laid eyes on the gorgeous yet deadly Dot-Orgs, who worshipped Lola as the Avatar of God. How this was possible was still shrouded in mystery. Since arriving at the “Masculine Re-Education Camp,” I had garnered little knowledge about this strange time in which we were stranded. Most of the men in the camp had been born here, or had been here so long that they could only recall vague details about the outside world.

Sooner or later, every man ended up here. Some donated sperm, which the Dot-Orgs used to inseminate themselves and further their race. Others were lobotomized and enrolled in a sort of foreign legion responsible for patrolling the outer fringes of the Dot-Org empire. The rest of the men lived and died within the sprawling complex of the re-education camp. The guards came and went, but none stayed throughout the night. The leaders within the walls were the strongest, forced to defend their territory with brutal violence and murder.

D’Artagnan’s time travel device was in the capitol city with Lola. As our only way home, I had great interest in the acquisition of the device. A month in prison had taught me the error of my ways. It was time to put this time traveling behind me and get back to my normal life – flipping burgers and reading history at Gambill State Community College.

The laundry check was routine. 16th Century Satan, my manservant and myself stood at attention while the Dot-Org girls checked our sheets, our toilet and behind the poster of Rita Hayworth. Then they marched out and left us to our own devices. My fellow prisoners wandered by the open door to our cell, glancing in furtively.

“There’s going to be trouble,” Satan said, lifting one of the floor stones and pulling out a contraband deck of cards.

“Because of you, you diabolical fuck.” I reached into the hole and pulled out a bottle of vodka. Pouring myself a shot, I knocked it back. Then, sputtering, I glanced at my manservant pleadingly. He scurried out of the cell and returned 5 minutes later with a bag of limes.

“Weather for later,” I said, pouring a shot of vodka for Satan and myself, “Drinking heavily, possible lime during the rush hour.”

“I’m troubled by the resourcefulness of your hideously deformed manservant.” Satan muttered, squeezing the juice from a wedge of lime into his shot glass.

“I don’t let it get under my skin,” I replied, gazing boozily at my cards.

One of the Dot-Orgs appeared in the doorway. “Nacho Sasha,” she inclined her head towards me. “Sirius Brianna will be here in the morning to inquire about the demise of Gerald Stone. You stand accused of possessing contraband weapons from the Forbidden Zone.”

I inhaled through clenched teeth and looked at the Dot-Org soldier, “Maybe a little mulled wine will help you help me, yes?”

“It’s too late, Sasha.”

“Maybe a piano wire around the neck will help you help yourself,” Satan glanced at my manservant, who reached into his pocket and glanced at me.

“The Sirius has been informed?” I asked.

“She has. It was a Fire Chain. We know it was you who did the killing.” She turned on her heel and left.

“So much for staying one step ahead of the spider,” I said to Satan.

“Can I have your vodka when you die?”

I turned to my manservant. “Operation Lawyers, Guns and Money is go.”

My manservant nodded and shuffled out of the room. I put my cards down, face up, and fell backwards onto my bunk.

“You’re not playing anymore?”

“We’ve got to get our adjectival asses out of here.”

“Of that, there is no doubt.”

I closed my eyes and started to relax my muscles. My mind was racing, but there weren’t any answers coming my way. I felt close to giving up. The re-education prison was a fortress and, even if I did escape, civilization was weeks away across an unforgiving wilderness. I wouldn’t even know which way to go if I did get escape.

I dozed with my thoughts and was awakened by my manservant some time later. He was gently holding my foot and he let go as soon as my eyes opened. A stranger was standing beside him, holding a homemade knife against my manservant’s neck.

“Nacho Sasha?” the man hissed. The stranger’s face was in shadows. I could feel Satan’s eyes on me from the bunk across the cell.

“Yes,” I replied.

“I apologize for my entrance, but I must to be sure you are the Nacho Sasha.”

“Mother of God, what the fuck do you want you wanker?”

The man removed the knife and knelt on the cold, stone floor. “I pledge myself to you, Nacho.”

“Do you lick?”

“What?” he looked up, “No, I don’t mean that. Nacho, you are the Messiah. Your coming has been foretold for centuries. You are the balance. When the Mistress Lola returns so shall the great Nacho Sasha, whose childlike and immature writings will save the Dot-Coms from the hideous yoke of Dot-Org tyranny.”

“You lost me, friend.” I muttered. “What, exactly, are you getting at?”

“You are the savior.” The man stood up and put his hand over his heart, “I am Helix. When the time is right, you shall be delivered from these prison walls.” He walked backwards out of the cell, turned on his heel and then ran down the corridor.

I turned to Satan, “See, I’ve had this headache for about 6 weeks now. I just don’t care about anything anymore.”

“Messiah?” Satan hissed.

“I’m sure he’s just a fruitcake. Nothing to be concerned about.” I turned to my manservant. “How about some mulled wine to settle the vodka in my stomach, daddy-o?”