That damned mask.
He’d come home from last Synergy with a thundercloud over his head, and no Conquest Championship around his waist. Before the end of Tuesday evening, he’d replaced the title belt with a gaudy, golden trainwreck on his face.
It reminded Monty of Tempest’s mask–before the bloody battle with the Arsonist that gave him his vulture eye and a half-ruined face. Except, it was spray painted gold with, impossibly, another golden masquerade mask plastered over the eyes. Wandering around the farmhouse, Holden looked like the hipster version of the grays you always see depicted on Ancient Aliens.
That damned mask.
As obnoxious as Holden could be, until this week the denizens of the farmhouse hadn’t much minded his presence. However, by Thursday, the blank, gilded stare was beginning to grate Montague’s nerves.
It’s currently dinner time on Friday evening, and Holden gathers arugula, fig jam, sheep cheese, pink Himalayan salt, purple tomatillo, and Itachi cucumbers for his burger. Meanwhile, he’s waxing poetic about how Francois Rude and Bertel Thorvaldsen were passable sculptors, but nowhere near the same league as Wnek.
Montague fumes over his untouched jalapeno and chipotle mayonnaise burger. Is Orson excited, warming to his subject? Angry, as though someone had challenged his favorite artist? Perhaps Holden is rehearsing for a dull lecture he’s giving at Franklin College?
Monty can’t tell through that stoic, auric gaze.
Holden: Say, is this beef grass-fed and hormone free? The only passable ranch is the Sage Meaadow in Hot Springs, South Dakota…
That damned mask.
Lying awake that night, the Doctor-Professor stares into the darkness above his bedchamber. He can no longer tolerate the terrible, awful mask’s presence. Making up his mind, Monty throws the coverlet from over himself, and leaps to his feet. With a mighty swipe, he tears the front of his maroon, velvet pajamas to reveal his full ringmaster regalia, then plucks his top hat from thin air. Perching it upon his crown, he turns to sweep out of the room.
A while later, he hurries back into his chamber, leaning against the door to close it. Monty stands there, face flush with morbid excitement, still the deed he'd just committed.
When Holden awoke, he'd find his awful mask had been reduced to gold nuggets. For some reason, he'd decided to use one of the master skeleton keys to lock the hipster in with his ruined disguise.
Calming, his breath slowing, the Mothman lifts his left hand to doff his hat and brush loose strands of hair off his damp forehead. Chuckling to himself, he pushes off the door and strolls easily over to his bed.
Just before he drifts off into the first contented sleep of the week, his mind absently registers a familiar voice crawling up from between the floorboards.
"Scoff"
How unnerved I am to see this pile of scrap that once was my new, beloved mask. My victories have ended and my most recent reign has dried. I cannot help but wonder if the ruined cover for my face represents the inability to reach my ends.
I pick up a few of the ruined nuggets, trying to piece them together like a puzzle. There is no way to return this once great covering to its former glory. Oh, the statement it would have made.
Lavish and golden, regal and gleaming! Did one such as me deserve such a recompense? By no means could I justify this display of gaudiness. A lone man like me did not deserve it. One like me must be content with the same, unremarkable veneer I started with.
I simply attend this masquerade.
An elementary task of holding a title that brings minimal prestige had given me a false sense of self-worth. Anything gained lost to the new, indifferent champion. How arrogant of me to think that I had improved myself. How arrogant of me to think I had conquered my despondency.
“Scoff.”
I say aloud. I let the nuggets hit the floor, much like my potential. I look at the door, realizing I’m in yet another place in which I do not belong. I consider gathering my things but I attempt to retrogress and leave with just the clothes on my back and my naked face.
But the door will not give way. The knob will not turn. Is the door jammed? Or am I incarcerated into this room as much as I am into my mediocrity? I try once more before retreating to my bed. I cannot even make a dramatic exit. I bury my woes into the pillow and let myself drift to sleep, murmuring once before I fall asleep.
“Scoff.”
#
It’s Saturday afternoon when Montague lifts the lid from a massive soup pot. The steam billows around his head, and he rolls his eyes back to enjoy the aroma. He’s invited Jordana over for homemade tamales, and they’re very nearly done.
Moments later, the Showman uses a pair of tongs to put three cornhusk-wrapped tamales onto a dish as Jordana marches in through the back door. Today, she’s dressed as Anna of Arendelle, and not for the first time, Monty wonders if she ever gets too hot in her cosplays.
The two exchange greetings and pleasantries as Andrews takes her seat. Montague places her plate before her, but freezes in the act of spooning a helping of white queso and green chile salsa.
“Scoff”
Jordana: Monty? Something wrong?
Montague shakes his head as if to clear it, then gives Jordana a crooked smile.
Montague: Oh, I just didn’t get much sleep last night. Not to worry, my dear.
She looks around pointedly.
Jordana: Where’s Holden? Shouldn’t you two be preparing for your cooperative match this Monday?
The Doctor-Professor pauses on his way back to the stove.
Montague: I’m not sure there’s much point in preparing for an opponent you’ve faced dozens of times.
Jordana: Seb’s eaten your lunch the last few times you’ve danced.
Montague: Don’t be dull, my dear. Those performances have been much more enjoyable for me than they’ve been for him.
Jordana: And it doesn’t bother you that in all likelihood, the unbeatable Chaos Champion sees your name across from his own on the card and decides he’s got an effortless week ahead of him?
Montague: I wasn’t aware Sebastian was in the practice of lying to himself.
Jordana: No, but I know it bothers you that he doesn’t offer the same respect that you offer him.
Montague’s mouth twists as he considers the truth of her accusation, but his mind is suddenly distracted when…
“Scoff”
Montague: Unlike Sebastian, I don’t require approval from my peers. I certainly am not the type to go searching for it in every dive organization that desperately scouts me. I only require the adoration, or abhorrence, of my audience. That I have, and I soak up more and more of it each Monday that I take the stage. My audience thrills at the thought of my taking on Sebastian time after time, win or lose. That’s all the fulfillment I desire.
“Scoff”
Montague: Besides, he’s coming to the presentation carrying an albatross around his neck, and that’s a disadvantage I myself won’t have to attend.
Jordana smirks.
Jordana: Your opinion of the hipster has certainly shifted over the last couple of months.
Montague: Opening myself up to new collaborations has reminded me that we’re not the only scum of the earth that’s stepped on by the elites. Tempest had us focused on trying to convert the high societies, when we could have been recruiting other disenfranchised souls to our cause.
Jordana: Don’t let that optimism cause you to affix all your focus on Davison at Survival of the Fittest.
Montague: I…
“Scoff”
She waits as Montague cuts himself off to listen. She looks around as his eyes wall in their sockets, but can’t make out what he’s listening to.
“Scoff”
Monty visibly winces suddenly, and Jordana darts to her feet, rushing over to check on him.
“Scoff”
Jordana: Monty what’s happening? Are you ok?
“Scoff”
Gently pushing her aside, the Showman suddenly rushes out of the kitchen, leaving his dish of tamales untouched on the counter.
Several hours pass as I awake, slowly realizing where I am; without my accolades and gaudiness. I sit up from the bed and examine the rubble of my golden mask from afar. How foolish of me.
“Scoff.”
As I stumble up from the bed, I knock into the bed-side table. My former mask flutters down into my line of vision, I cannot help but recall the tribulations we’ve endured. While it was by my side through many of my toughest times, it never brought me the glory I craved.
“Scoff.”
Is this covering just an allegory for my failed ventures? Why would it flutter into my sight?
“Scoff.”
I want it to go away. Maybe I’d fund the sustained success I’ve always craved. I snatch it from the floorboards and walk to the bin. But I manage to catch my reflection. The bareness of my face reflects back. No trial or tribulation has ever been done without this mask. It is a part of me; I am part of it.
“Scoff.”
No! I will move forward. I move to the bin but the mask refuses to leave my hands. I hold it up and stare into the emptiness of the eye holes. I see myself. Unlike my other reflection, this is Holden. I cannot contest it.
“Scoff.”
I slowly tie the mask to my face and gaze at my simulacrum in the mirror. For better or worse, this is Holden.
Deigning to forego unlocking the door to Holden’s quarters, Montague bursts through, shattering the jamb. To his shock and confusion, Orson is leaning in close to a mirror mounted on the wall, running a bamboo comb through his scant goatee.
Holden: Oh good afternoon, Montague. Did I smell hallaca cooking?
He turns to a stunned Monty, sporting a more familiar mask. Flummoxed, the Mothman’s head pivots quickly from side to side, eyes darting, searching for the tatters of the golden mask.
There’s no trace of it. And no trace of chagrin on Holden’s face indicating he was annoyed with Monty’s intrusion and vandalism in the wee hours of the morning. Nothing to indicate the mask had ever existed at all.
That damned mask.
