Mr. Naalson and the Keeper

Naalson walked through the gateway of the prison. A shiver passed over him as the anguish of the imprisoned washed over him. In his own way, they were his brothers and he grieved their imprisonment, however necessary for the greater good. Naalson hated that expression 'the greater good'. It was one that was introduced by the Christians, if he recalled it correctly. That 'greater good' being the good for their distant god. Naalson flicked an invisible bit of lint off of his suit and waited as the guard waved a metal detector wand over him. It chirped as it passed over his wrists. Naalson pulled back his shirt sleeves to reveal the dead watch on his left wrist and the medical id bracelet on his right.

“Sign in at the right,” the guard instructed in a bored tone. Naalson leaned over to peer at the names of the guards assigned at the door but they turned away before he could catch their names. The yellow painted brick had all the charm of a deeply infected wound's purulent drainage. Naalson half expected the smell underneath the scent of the industrial cleaner that had been used earlier in the day. He picked up a black pen with his left hand and signed his name; Naalson, Loptr. The guard looked up at him suspiciously. “What kind of name is Loptr?”

“It's an old family name from my mother's side. We're Norwegian originating from the Jotunheimen region,” Naalson explained with an air of someone who had to explain his name far too many times. The guard nodded and said something about people always getting his name wrong too. “I'm here to see the warden,” Naalson said, shrugging up his sleeve a bit to glance at the watch face, “He is expecting me.” The guard gestured another one over to him.

“Please see Mister.. uh.. Na.. Nel ..” The guard looked awkardly at Naalson.

“It's pronounced Naal-son,” he said.

“Oh, yes. Right. Got it. Please see Mister Naalson to Warden Schmitt's office,” the guard instructed his companion. The uniforms and the semi-military haircuts gave them an almost nondescript quality. Naalson noted, however, the one who let him in the door had black hair and a moustache with grey hairs beginning to show. He noted that the one lazing behind the desk was a red head like himself, just a lighter color and with less freckles. The guard walking infront of him had blond hair and ice blue eyes. He vaguely reminded Naalson of someone he knew once that died by misadventure with a sprig of mistletoe.

As they moved through the administrative offices portion of the prison, Naalson could practically hear the walls groan with despair. This, he concluded, was a cursed place. He rubbed his right wrist absentmindedly and wondered if he was going to find himself face to face with a snake. The warden's secretary looked up from a sheaf of reports and blinked in surprise. Naalson was quite possibly the tallest man he had seen. Naalson towered over the guard but was surprisingly lean. His carefully groomed beard hid his scars and a few of his freckles. His hair was cut in a manner that was virtually identical to the one worn by the majority of the corrections officers. When the sunlight fell on it through the chickenwire impregnated windows, it seemed to have the color of a spark against the dreary grey of the office.

“Warden Schmitt is expecting me,” Naalson said, “I'm actually a few minutes late.” The secretary looked down at the paperwork and then shuffled around more papers. “The warden is in, isn't he? I was told today and this time, tuesday at nine o'clock.”

“Yes, here you are,” said the secretary, holding up a neon pink sticky note, “To discuss the matter of your nephew. One moment.” Naalson folded his hands behind his back in a position similar to military at ease. Then an uncomfortable feeling crawled up his spine, a bodily memory of sorts. Naalson brought his hands back down to his sides as the door to the warden's office opened.

Warden Schmitt was not an impressive looking man. He was perhaps the most boring looking person that Naalson had ever laid eyes on during his travels. Naalson was mildly impressed with this unconscious feat. Schmitt was reviewing some manner of paperwork, peering over wire rimmed glasses. His mouse brown hair was thinning but carefully groomed. His face was clean shaven where a beard or moustache might have lent him some visual sense of personality. A small man, Schmitt didn't strike fear into people with his stature. Quiet spoken, it wasn't his voice that many feared, at first.

“Elliot, put that on the pile,” Schmitt said, waving a hand at the towering stack of papers on the corner of his desk.

“Warden Schmitt, your nine o'clock appointment is here,” the secretary coughed, embarrassed by his superior's behavior. Schmitt looked over and then up at Naalson.

“I see, very well. Bring me the report when this meeting is over, then,” Schmitt said. He stood up and gestured towards the second chair in the room. It was a small chair for Naalson to sit down in comfortably but somehow he managed to make it look so. “What can I do for you, sir?” Schmitt said, attempting to sound ingratiating in his bland voice. Naalson couldn't help the vulpine smile that came when Schmitt asked his question.

“There is an inquiry going on, Mister Schmitt,” Naalson said, “I believe word of it has reached your office.” Schmitt looked confused. “Clearly the memo was misplaced. Your secretary's desk is almost as bad as mine,” Naalson said with that same smile, his tone sounding genuinely warm and friendly. “An inmate recently was reported to have become deceased under your watch under suspicious circumstances.” Schmitt's attempt to be pleasant dropped away and the tepid looking man scowled as much as such a man could manage. “The report,” Naalson continued, sounding bored with the entire affair, “Said that you were the last man to see him alive.”

“Are you accusing me of something?” demanded Schmitt, his voice turning hard. It was a tone that the inmates were troubled by. Because when Schmitt was angry, bad things tended to happen.

“Oh, I'm not accusing you of anything,” Naalson said mildly, “Merely stating the facts of the report that I received. And this inmate, I believe his number was ... No, that doesn't matter. “ Naalson leaned forward, steepling his fingers before his face as he rested his elbows on the warden's desk. “Erick Ericksonne was his name,” Naalson said, “the report reads that he committed suicide. However, it also reads that all suicide watch protocol was followed. No belt, no shoelaces, no sheet on the cot. Hell, no cot even, just a mattress in a bare cell. We all know how those parts of the facility look. With the dehumanizing mint green and pink colors that make you think of those damned after dinner mints that taste like chalk, am I right?”

Schmitt blinked quickly. He had the feeling that he was in the presence of someone quite dangerous though he couldn't parse the reason why. “I have one question for you, John,” Naalson said, gesturing with his right hand towards the warden. “Why did you strangle him? Wasn't it enough that you had him in solitary on suicide watch for refusing to say the pledge first thing in the morning? Wasn't it enough that you had his food rations cut in half? Are you really so patriotic as to murder a man for 'disrespecting the flag'?”

Schmitt hit the panic button under his desk. Nothing happened. He pressed it again. “Oh, tech gets gitchy around me,” Naalson said, smiling, “You should see my watch. Something about my ... energy.” Schmitt felt sweat beading up along the back of his neck. “Or, really,” Naalson said suddenly as he leaned back and raised his right index finger as though he had an exciting revelation, “Is the problem that Erick was a pacifist? Well, we should say, was in this case. Proper context is important as is clauses. You hate pacifists. You've hated them since the war. Can't say I'd blame you much except for there's one small problem. This isn't the war. You can't kill a man with impunity, no matter how well you cover it up.”

“Turning off the camera on the room, clever man,” Naalson said, “But, you forgot about the one in the hallway. It caught you 'adjusting' your belt. The very same belt you used to strangle your prisoner.”

“That's a lie,” Schmitt said in an icey tone. The vulpine smile returned. Schmitt wondered how this man knew. He wondered if he hadn't paid the guard on duty enough money to keep his yap shut. He wondered if the camera actually was on. “You're trying to blackmail me,” Schmitt said.

“Oh no, blackmail is beneath me,” Naalson said, “I'm here to give you a choice. Confess your crime or suffer Erick's fate.”

“What are you going to do? Kill me?” Schmitt couldn't keep the note of panic out of his voice at the last part of his statement.

Naalson scoffed, “I wouldn't dirty my hands. Your hands, however...”

Schmitt's hands shook and began to move of their own accord. Naalson watched as he took of his belt and stood up. “Stop this,” Schmitt said.

“You are doing this to yourself,” Naalson answered as Schmitt looped one end of the belt over the pendant lamp hanging from the ceiling. He watched with emotionless eyes as Schmitt's filled with panic and he struggled. As he teetered on the rolling chair with his makeshift noose around his neck, Schmitt's face turned red. Naalson stood up and walked around the table. He gripped hold of the back of the chair. For a moment Schmitt's stance stabilized and the awful pressure around his throat eased up for a moment. “Off to Niflhel with you, snake,” Naalson said in Schmitt's ear before kicking the chair out from under him.

Schmitt's secretary opened the door. “Sir, your nine o'clock appointment is here,” he said, looking down at the report in his hand. The secretary looked up and screamed at the sight of his superior dangling from a light that could barely hold him. “Oh god, somebody... somebody do something!” the secretary screamed as others around him scrambled into action. In the chaos, no one noticed a mouse scuttling out of the room and evading their stomping feet.