A small pool of blood forms, drip by drip, between two black boots positioned at the foot of a decaying fountain. Rich red mixes with the closest puddle of sulphuric rain, diluting it to a murky brown, rendering it all but invisible in a pockmarked, grey landscape.
The drips continue and the boots shift as their owner leans back on the fountain rim and pinches the bridge of his nose. He is dressed in a tatty black suit, with a dirty grey dog collar at the neck - the attire of a preacher, for that is what he is. Thinning grey hair rubs the back of his jacket and leaves a scatter of pale flakes behind as he continues to staunch the flow of blood, squinting against the relentless rain and the spray of filthy fountain water.
Eventually he stands up, turns on his heel and spits a thick gob of bloody phlegm into the fountain itself. It sits bubbling on the top layer of scum for a few seconds before merging with an oily patch of black stuff, which looks intent on taking over the whole pool.
“Fuck you Shakespeare,” the preacher says, staring into the cold, lifeless eyes of the statue standing in the centre of the fountain. The statue doesn’t respond so the preacher busies himself collecting a scattered sheaf of papers from the floor. His haggard face creases in pain when he bends low to retrieve his dog eared bible and he knows for sure his nose is broken. Gingerly he lifts one hand to his face and carefully traces the line of his eye socket, blackened and bruised by the force of a fist which connected with his nose perhaps 20 minutes earlier.
He focuses on the index finger as it drops away from his face. No blood, just an overgrown, yellowed fingernail attached to a gnarled digit. Then all at once the preacher is stuck by the composition of the image in front of him. An outstretched finger. The accuser’s finger. The finger of God. He stretches his arm out in front of him, pointing across the square in the direction of his attacker, now long gone.
“But if I with the finger of God cast out devils, doubt not the Kingdom of God is come upon you!” he shouts, now waving the finger with vigour.
No one in the square gives the preacher so much as a glance. The hustle and bustle continues as everyone goes about their morning business, striving to get out of the rain.
The preacher surveys the scene quietly now, his face a mask of hate. But something is wrong. His right arm is still shaking, even as it hangs by his side. Lifting the hand to his face, fingers splayed, he can clearly see the tremors and he knows there is nothing he can do. He seems to consider this for a moment, eyes widening, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in anticipation of the words his mind is only just forming. How long has he got? Not long.
Temporal lobe lability they call it, but it is sometimes known as the black shakes . There are those that don’t believe in its existence, those who chuckle at its mention and relish the concept that in a world where everything is turning virtual, humanity has seen the need to inflict virtual ailments upon itself. The other thing is, it’s extremely contagious. Not in the way that humans might have understood it to be years ago. You don’t catch it from people, you catch it from the world. You catch it from being alive.
On a long enough timeline life becomes 100 per cent fatal.
“You think you’re safe?” the preacher screams at the air, once again thrusting his trembling limb out before him.
“You’re not safe anywhere. You’re not safe because you spend your time in an orbiting bubble at the Hilton Satellite Hotel. The reason we’re all so fucked in the head is because of the world we live in.”
He focuses his attention on those passing by, picking targets out of the crowd - a rich looking Russian woman with two burly bodyguards, one of which holds an umbrella and turns to face the preacher as his ward passes, lest the crazy old man try anything.
“You can’t buy your way out of this one, it’s everywhere!” the preacher says, making a sweeping gesture with both arms, releasing his sheaf of papers into the wind.
“When you pulled that facsimile news sheet out of the infodeck this morning, you got infected just a little bit more. When you ordered your grande latte with synthetic full-taste-zero-fat milk from the Starfucks vendor at lunchtime, you got a little bit more. When you go home to your lonely apartment tonight, nuke a ready meal, drink a bottle of wine and slip on the virtual reality eyephones before hitting the sack, well, then you’re really going to be getting it…”
At this remark there is an almost imperceptible shift in the shuffling gait of a passer by. His face belies a youthful innocence, but his waistline betrays abandonment. In his hand is a plastic carrier from a vintage comic book store.
“You know how you tell you’ve got the shakes? Because next time you’re plugged into that skinsuit, spasming on the couch and looking up at Tammy Taylor banging your brains out, it’s like looking in on an empty house.”
By now the passing mob has noticed the violent twitching of the preacher’s arms. His eyes are unfocused and flecks of bloody spittle spray from his cracked lips. As one, the crowd shifts away, forming a semicircular exclusion zone, moving faster, for fear of getting infected.
“Because this is all an illusion, and it’s falling apart at the seams. Your mind is screaming to evacuate this plastic prison you’ve put it in. It’s in the TV, it’s in the internet, it’s in your fucking coffee machine. You know when you hear voices in white noise? That’s it. You know when your skin crawls like spiders? That’s it too. So get a good seat and watch it all fall apart…”
The preacher’s rant tails off abruptly, but his jaw continues to flex, opening and closing like a fish out of water. The sheaf of papers swirls away, some pages daring to lick the blackened surface of the fountain, while the bible lays open at his feet, pages twitching in mimicry of its owner.
A fist of black ice has gripped his mind, taking the light from his eyes, his face a frozen mask of terror as something only he can see rises up in his field of vision. Thick white vomit pours down his breast, running over old, dried stains, scars of previous seizures. The preacher staggers backwards and falls hard, his frail skull cracking wetly against the grey concrete basin of the fountain.
Almost immediately, a thin rivulet of rich, red blood crawls from the base of his broken skull, finding a path down the grey concrete to merge finally with the dark water below. Not a soul pays him any heed as his body comes to rest, ultimately free of the tremors.
From his vantage point on the stone plinth above, Shakespeare watches the sorry scene unflinchingly, a thin, bitter smile, gracing his rain worn lips.
“Fuck you, preacher,” he seems to say. But if the statue had a voice, it could not be heard over the thunder of the fountain.
