Blair's Bargain

RECORD FOR CLERK OF THE NATIONAL UNKNOWN PHENOMENA AGENCY - SEPT. 19, 2006

The following is a letter written by a BLAIR, DARREN, age 42, of NEW YORK, found in a basement cellar near his estate at [ADDRESS REDACTED]. On [DATE REDACTED] the following account was entered, and added to the record.

This is one of several letters obtained by the National Unknown Phenomena Agency (NUPA) over the past two decades to better understand interactions with the First Realm. This information is classified, and attempts to publicize such information prior to 2064 is punishable under penalty of law.

LETTER BEGINS:

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My name is Darren Blair, and I’m not sure how much time I have.

My home is on fire, and I’m writing this from a cellar just off the property. I believe more than a dozen assassins are after me, and I fear it’s only a matter of time until I'm found.

I’m going to write down as much as I can to explain my circumstances. I hope if you’re reading this, you can get this to the proper authorities. I'm not sure that I'll live, but the information may be useful.

Last night I received a black booklet, and money from a person not from our world. Their name was Barbadool, and they gave me $20,000 with “no strings attached.” The money was old dollar bills, something from the 19th century. I thought it was peculiar considering I’m a billionaire.

“Your wealth and influence entitles you to it, Mr. Blair,” Barbadool said. He had this wide, seemingly permanent smile with the most crooked, yellow teeth. He looked like a deteriorating human, who had lived longer than they were meant.

Barbadool explained the money could be used to call favors from the “First Realm.” As a demonstration, he took out his own black booklet, and wrote for a thief. Within a minute, another apparition, who looked similar to Barbadool, was standing in my study.

Barbadool told the thief to steal $150,000 from Westings and Cooper Bank, which it did for just $20 of Barbadool’s money. It brought the bag of cash back, leaving it on my study floor.

“It did all that for $20? No cut? Nothing?” I asked.

“Your money and our money are not the same, Mr. Blair,” Barbadool said, smiling all the same.

I looked through the black booklet, scanning its pages. It was in a language that I had never seen, but I could read it like it was native to me. It listed different kinds of spirits I could call, including a thief, a [REDACTED], an assassin, an angel, a spy, a [REDACTED], and a disruptor. Ideas festered in my brain in an instant.

“Call me if you need more money,” Barbadool said.

I got to work, calling a disruptor with the idea being to interrupt the construction of that new finance building Warner Tower on Montgomery Street. As you may be aware, I’m one of the most prominent real estate developers in NYC, and have constructed finance buildings of my own, including the Galder.

I called the disruptor, and it told me it could set back the construction for $70, which I agreed to. It left, and within minutes the building had collapsed and created a disaster. There was so much dust, and debris. I heard wailing outside. Sirens, and fragments of building slam into the pavement. I swear I never meant for the building to do that.

When the apparition came back, I was furious. I called it a psychopath, and lazy at some point. But it didn’t care at all.

“You not understanding the consequences of what you ask for are not my concern. Pay me.”

I refused, and it began to walk closer toward me. It lightly touched me on the chest, and pain shot through me from my core, ebbing out into my veins. My senses went haywire, and for a moment, I existed in a plane of nothing but black and white.

The next moment, I was laying there in a catatonic state, unable to move. But I remained conscious. I watched the spirit take $70 of my cash, plus an additional $30 “for all the trouble,” it said.

I laid there for five hours, and all I could do was see the dust falling with the snow from my window. Plumes of debris came from the tower. The screams and sirens of the scene continued. I tried my best to focus, and think of my next plans. But it was so hard. I think at some point I tuned it out, but the mayhem was always there.

After I regained movement, I got to work again. I thought now I understood my new privilege. I’d had hours to think my plans through, piecing together everything I wanted and was working towards. This was going to put me ahead by decades.

I turned the television on when I got up to see the news. Dozens Dead In Building Collapse, Hundreds More Missing, the headline read. Dust continued to fall, and it smelled like construction. The snow outside had turned into a grayish brown slush. The sirens calmed down, but flare-ups continued.

I had formed a list of spirits in my head I was prepared to call. A thief first. This apparition resembled a troll, and took almost 20 minutes to arrive.

"What took you?" I asked it.

"The chaos is very strong tonight, my friend,” the figure said. “Lots of people want lots of things. Now what is your pleasure?”

I told it I needed a set of blueprints from [REDACTED]’s office. It would cost $120, it said. A swollen price due to higher demand. I wanted to argue, but the shock of earlier urged me against it. I took the deal, and the troll was off. Within ten minutes, it had returned.

But I didn't wait around. I kept calling apparitions, mostly disruptors and thieves. I ordered several, doled out tasks to each of them, sent them off, and repeated the process.

Within the hour, I'd called 26 apparitions and spent more than three grand. I called spies to gain info on my rivals. I called a ring of thieves to steal various documents from Washington D.C. I called an assassin. Though, after bartering with the last one, I thought better of it, and called it off.

As I had made my way through what seemed like every apparition in the First Realm, a sudden boom from another part of my house shook my attention.

The pounding repeated, and was followed by shouts, and screams from what sounded like my housekeep. It was faint at first, but grew louder, like it was getting closer to me. The pops became prominent, and were paired with footsteps. Several sets of them in each case.

I wasn’t panicked yet. With the time I’d spent thinking, I knew there were many things I could use these spirits for. I wrote for an angel to protect me, and put my book in my pocket to leave, prepared to confront whatever was out there. The spirits had been arriving much quicker, so I had high faith in the angel coming soon.

Nothing.

After a couple of minutes, my anxiety bordered madness. The angel was nowhere, and the steps were getting closer. I thought about my options, mostly the window in my study, knowing that the three-story fall may be my best hope.

As I peered out at the potential fall, a figure caught the corner of my eye. A ghoulish figure in a black hood. Its arms hung to the floor. For a moment, I felt salvation.

“Are you an angel?”

A pair of piercing blue eyes stared at me. It’s arm expanded into a blade-like weapon, aimed at my head. I ducked towards the window, thinking I had been hit, but felt nothing.

I sprinted towards the window as it shot its second arm, jumping through the glass. I landed on my side, trying to roll, but failing. I hit the ground hard, but had no pain, which I chalked up to adrenaline. My last hope was the cellar at the back of my property. I needed to hide. When I rounded the corner, I saw three figures that looked like twisted humans throwing Molotov cocktails through my windows.

The house went up in flames, and all I could do was stare at what I had sowed. The figures hurried around the corner of the house. But the scene became immaterial to me when I realized my fatal error.

The money.

I’d left it in my study, and there was no way back in. With nowhere to go and the booklet in my pocket, a last ditch idea formed. Barbadool. I knew if I could get to the cellar, just off my property at the edge of Magonie Forest, I could call them, get more money, and come up with a plan to protect myself.

I made my way in that direction, finding the cellar, crawling in, and barring the door from the inside. The cellar had no lights, but something around me was emanating a glow. I thought someone might be in the basement with me, but I couldn’t see anything. I pulled my book out and wrote for Barbadool. They appeared before I could finish writing their name.

“Well well,” they said with a genuine chuckle. “You’ve done quite a number, haven’t you? Sixteen assassins on your tail is impressive. Though I can’t say I envy you.”

I told Barbadool that I needed more money and that I had a plan to get the other cash back. The apparition erupted in a laugh that sounded like the cacophony of a group partaking in a joke. “You won’t get that money back. That’s half the reason those workers came. First one to find it will probably split it with whoever hired them.”

It was then I realized one of the flaws in my schemes. Something I never considered. “So other people have this kind of money too?”

Barbadool laughed again. “Of course. Accumulate enough wealth and power in this realm, it’s basically a ticket to our world. But, I guess not everyone’s ready for it.”

I was beside myself. Furious, embarrassed, defeated. “Well, I ordered a god damned angel and they didn’t even show up. So what’s that about?”

Barbadool, keeping his smile, cocked his face in confusion. He glanced above me, and then back down, like he was looking at something I couldn’t see.

“Then what am I looking at?”

I looked above me, but saw nothing, just the same emanating glow around me. I felt comfort at that moment, but it didn’t get me out of my predicament. Barbadool, as if reading my mind, suggested money was my only option, offering me $100,000 with “standard rates.”

I had one year of my realm’s time to pay him back. “How the hell do I make this kind of money?”

“The same way you make any money,” Barbadool said. “Work for it or steal it. But that is not my concern, Mr. Blair. Though, I won’t send assassins if you’re late.” They chuckled. Their smile remained, but looked sinister.

“What will you do?”

“Oh keep you in a perpetual state of Hell, deny you passage to the Final Realm, siphon your life essence slowly,” they said. “Take a loved one from you. Really there’s infinite possibilities. So, please don’t be late.” Their smile betrayed their true wishes.

“This is chaos,” I said.

Barbadool laughed once again. “Mr. Blair, this is business.”

I accepted the deal, took the money, and began writing this letter. I’m not sure what is going to happen to me. I have the angel (the light is still here at least), and I’m going to call other help with my book. I’m sure those who know what to do with this will know what became of me.

Wish me luck.

- DARREN BLAIR