Annex Episode of The Available Heroes
Story and Art: Luis G. Abbadie
(You can also read the Spanish version here)
Prologue
Beneath the
night sky, a pyre burned in the center of the hacienda’s clearing. A blonde
woman in a black dress stirred the flames with a rod, while a man in a shabby
brown suit placed a chalice of red wine on an altar set over a dark cloth on
the ground, beside a wooden pentacle. Various implements and objects were
arranged all around it, everything in readiness for a new moon ritual.
From the
hacienda building came a woman draped in a red cloak; she was the only one
wearing ceremonial attire—though, in truth, she was also the only one who often
wore her cloak outside the ritual space, for certain activities.
“It’s all
ready,” said Desdemona Mather, tossing another log onto the fire.
“Thank you,”
said Marietta Là-bas with a smile. “Now you’d better go inside while I work.”
“You should let
us help,” protested Rosen Cruz. “With the three of us, we’d gather more power.”
“You’ve already
helped enough with this,” she replied. “I’ll do this alone; working with the
forces of fate is dangerous, because they will make us face all our debts—our
karma. I am willing; it’s worth it. But it’s not necessary for you to unleash
the same upon yourselves. Besides,” she added, looking meaningfully at
Desdemona, “it will be much safer if you face the debt, you know which one, on
your own terms.”
Desdemona
pressed her lips together and nodded.
“Come on,
Rosen,” she said, turning back toward the hacienda, and added: “Be very
careful.”
Marietta smiled
again.
“Always.”
“Ha!” Desdemona
responded loudly, without looking back.
Marietta waited
for the door to close behind them, then turned to face the fire. She raised the
hood of her cloak, covering her head. She grasped the athame from the altar and
held the double-edged blade over the flames for a moment, then walked
northward, moving steadily along the perimeter traced with stones, pausing to
gesture at each of the cardinal points. She circled three times, murmuring
names of power; then she returned to the center and tapped the pentacle three
times with the athame. She raised her arms in V-shape and declared:
“I stand under
the same stars under which my ancestors celebrated, to speak the same names by
which we have known them since they were taught to us by the Holy Strega.
Guardians of the four quarters, lend your strength to this rite, that my voice
may be heard!”
Her figure would
have appeared imposing to any onlooker; Marietta Là-bas, the relaxed and
elegant woman who had entered the circle, had been replaced by Lady Satan, the
witch.
She pulled a
small vial from a pocket in her cloak and placed it upon the pentacle. She
pricked her left index finger with the tip of the athame until a drop of blood
welled up; then, she made the sign of Voor, the horned hand, with her right
hand while touching the vial with the bleeding finger.
A gale burst
forth just as she began to chant, in a powerful voice, an ancient incantation,
as if the elements themselves joined her in the call:
“Tisiphone uocisque meæ secura Megæra,
non
agitis sæuis Erebi per inane flagellis
infelicem animam? Iam uos ego nomine
uero
eliciam Stygiasque canes in luce superna
destituam;
per busta sequar per funera custos,
expellam tumulis, abigam uos omnibus
urnis.
Teque deis, ad quos alio procedere uultu
ficta soles, Hecate pallenti tabida
forma,
ostendam faciemque Erebi mutare uetabo.
Eloquar immenso terræ sub pondere quæ te
contineant,
Hennæa, dapes, quo fœdere mæstum
regem noctis ames, quæ te contagia
passam
noluerit reuocare Ceres. Tibi, pessime
mundi
arbiter, immittam ruptis Titana
cauernis,
et subito feriere die. Paretis, an ille
compellandus erit, quo numquam terra
uocato
non concussa tremit, qui Gorgona cernit
apertam
uerberibusque suis trepidam castigat
Erinyn,
indespecta tenet uobis qui Tartara,
cuius
uos estis superi, Stygias qui peierat
undas?” [1]
Lady Satan
remained with arms raised, eyes closed, surrendering to the force of the wind
with a fierce grin; when it subsided, she opened her eyes. She crossed her arms
across her chest and bowed.
She
had been heard.
Inside the
hacienda, Rosen Cruz poured a pair of glasses of wine, pausing at the roar of
the weather; the window panes rattled. He glanced at Desdemona, and saw a
shiver run through her.
“They have
come,” she said in a weak voice.
Rosen set the
bottle down and took a gulp from his glass in anger.
“We should be
out there with her. Anyway, I should.”
“She’s right,”
replied the young woman. “You know well what working with… them can unleash.
And we’re not ready: I, for my mother’s legacy. And you, well, what you were
forced to do at Montauk…”
Rosen grimaced.
“That, and a lot
more other things; I’ve had more than enough time to get into all sorts of trouble,
so I’ve got an entire catalog of options,” he fell silent a moment, dark-faced.
“Yes… Mari is right. But I don’t like it. She claims to have less immediate
risk, but nobody’s risk-free, least of all when they’ve worked the left-hand
path. I should have…”
“Our turn will
come,” said Desdemona, approaching; she took the other glass and raised it. “In
our own way.”
Rosen raised his
in reply.
“In our own
way.”
The door opened
after a few minutes, and Lady Satan walked in; she was slow, tired, the strength
and steadiness she had manifested in the ritual drained for the moment. Once
again, she was only Marietta, a weary woman… but satisfied. She smiled
gratefully when Rosen handed her a glass of wine.
“You’re good,”
he said. “Your grandmother must be proud of you, on the other side.”
“I think she was
here, lending me a hand,” she replied with a wink. Rosen nodded, with a crooked
smile.
“I’ve spoken to
our friend,” he said. “He’ll be expecting you in Washington next week.”
I
President Drumpf
found himself with little to do in the Oval Office. Usually, they gave him
various activities; his staff knew that leaving him too long to himself was
potentially problematic. Today, once again, he decided to watch what those he
called the “terrible TV networks” with Democratic leanings were doing.
Deep down,
Drumpf enjoyed infuriating himself at his detractors; feeling that he was in
combat with his enemies. Feeling heroic. Even if the sole aggressors were
verbal attacks and memes. Sometimes he felt like a survivor, as though the
staged attempt on his life—when they told him how to burst a cinematic SFX blood
capsule in his ear—had been real; in his mind, the memories grew more blurry
with each passing day, while the dramatic portrait from that moment currently hung
on a White House wall was far sharper than his actual recollection of the
event. Sometimes he realized his mind had less clarity than before, but he
blamed it on lack of rest, on his constant struggle to make the United States
of America the “hottest” country. Even if the periods of idleness and Netflix
distractions grew ever longer.
He tuned into
the WWB channel; television was one device he did know how to operate. He
prided himself, he thought, on acknowledging his limitations: high-tech set his
boundaries. For that he had his properly trained team who switched the computer
on for him and posted on his Drumpf Social account according to his dictations.
He selected the news show Answers Only; the logo appeared with its
rhythmic theme music.
Behind his desk,
lead commentator V.M. Sage appeared, looking at the camera. He greeted with a
smile his co-host Tina Sanders, and producer Nora, to whom he gestured
off-camera. But Sage’s eyes did not smile; they rarely did. He seemed
perpetually angry, complaining on each broadcast about whatever outraged him.
Drumpf usually enjoyed this, clapping at his diatribes against the previous
president—until the day Sage dared cut off a phone call he’d made to the show.
That, Drumpf decided, was the moment Sage had shown his true colors. Indeed,
since Drumpf had been elected, Sage had turned his fury on him, determined to
ruin his respectability, portraying all his achievements as failures.
Now, Sage looked
into the camera, and stopped smiling.
“The meeting between
the president and Russian leader Vlad Prudkin was exactly what we expected.
Drumpf arrived with promises to pacify the war in Ukraine once again, and
Prudkin left without making a single concession—once again. Meanwhile, Drumpf
offered him American support and resources. Once again! If we held any doubts whether
we have a president at the service of the ex-KGB agent now ruling his own
country as a dictator, Ronald Drumpf does everything he can to make it clear
for us.”
“Only today,
images began to circulate of new attacks on Ukrainian territory; Russian
troops, yes—but also North Korean troops, a country now unilaterally siding
with Russia,” Sage gestured, and on cue the monitor showed footage of tanks
rolling through a Ukrainian town. “As we can see here, the Russian army was awaiting
Prudkin’s signal; as soon as he returned to Moscow, their soldiers raised two
flags on their tanks: Russia’s and America’s. That sends a very clear message
to the Ukrainians: if they were expecting help or support from our troops, now
they know it will go only to the Russian invaders. They don’t know and don’t
care about anything else: they are dying at the hands of Russian and North
Korean soldiers, and our flag is one of those borne by their executioners.”
The camera
returned to Sage’s face.
“Is this what
we’ve become? Allies of Russia and North Korea? Weren’t those the very ‘enemies
of freedom’ Republicans used to oppose just a couple years ago? Welcome to our
new banana republic, fellow Americans! Long live the führer!”
“Stupid!” roared
Drumpf, and paused the transmission. He would not listen to any more nonsense;
he had to shut that fool up. He pressed the intercom button on his desk.
“Emily! Get here right now, I need to post an important message on social media
about that terrible reporter V.M. Sage.”
II
Henry Lorentz
left his home without any hurry. He told himself he was happy with his job, but
in truth he had suffered through it these past months. Being in charge of the
president’s health was a Sisyphean task, and increasingly dangerous. Drumpf
never listened to reason; on a few rare occasions he had paid some attention to
Lorentz’s attempts to explain his precarious physiological condition, but
convincing him that his diet had to be controlled was impossible. The most he
had achieved was moderating his soda intake—but even then, it went from five to
eight cans during a single morning of golf at the Mar-A-Taco courses. And typically,
Drumpf began reproaching him when he felt ill, which was terrifying.
If all went smoothly,
today he would merely need to perform the daily checkups, nothing else; he’d rather
not have to give any medical orders if he could avoid it. Though for his own
safety, he could never fail to intervene when some worrying sign presented
itself.
After kissing
his wife goodbye, he got into his car, set his briefcase on the passenger seat,
and started the engine—when he felt a sting in the side of his neck. He reached
back, touching a gloved hand that was already withdrawing a syringe. Terrified,
he turned, vertigo overwhelming him. His vision blurred; he could not even
distinguish the features of the man in the back seat, but he saw more clearly
the woman beside him, watching him impassively through red glasses. He tried to
scream, speak, call for help; thought of Laura at home, far too far to hear him…
but his lips would not obey. His body went limp, collapsing over his briefcase.
The assailants
moved quickly, dragging Lorentz from the car; they handcuffed him, gagged him,
and threw him into the trunk. Then the woman slid into the driver’s seat while
her partner grabbed the briefcase and settled beside her.
“We should kill
him,” she said, starting the engine.
“That would be
abusing our advantage,” he replied, rubbing his face. “In other circumstances,
perhaps.”
“Advantage? That
bastard literally holds an army in his hands! That’s the only reason no one
else has done it.”
He regarded her
for a moment, with cold green eyes.
“He doesn’t
deserve compassion, true. But neither does he deserve for us to debase
ourselves.”
She remained
silent a few minutes; her fury only showed in the harshness of her driving.
“Marietta…”
“Enough!” she
snapped. “You’re right. Damn you, you’re right.”
She fell silent
again; their destination was near when she spoke again:
“I hope your
plan amounts to something. But I’ll do things my way.”
“If you’re
thinking of poisoning or…”
This time, she
smiled; she gazed at him over the rim of her red glasses.
“Many of us have
been working on other levels; this is a unique opportunity.”
It was his turn
to fall silent; he studied her face, then finally nodded with a sigh. He did
not take his companion’s occult studies too seriously, but if they gave her
satisfaction, she could do as she pleased; he would stick to his part.
III
Vice President
Vantz left with a worried look, leaving Drumpf relaxed and boastful; he had
signed the documents, as always, without understanding much of their content,
but his tirade about his constant personal war on social media against the
Democratic press made it clear they would have a storm of media garbage to deal
with in coming days. Still, if they waited a couple days, with luck the
president would already be mad at somebody else and forget his intention to
confront the headboard of what he called “Fake News WWB.”
In the waiting
hall, a doctor and a nurse appeared; he was younger than Drumpf’s regular
physician. They usually didn’t last long—he would fire them over any complaint,
or they would quit. It remained to be seen how long this one would last.
“I’m Dr.
Dreyfuss. Lorentz must have told you he couldn’t make it.”
The secretary
nodded, checking her notes.
“He called about
an hour ago, said you’d be coming in his place. Andrew Dreyfuss?”
He nodded,
adjusting polarized glasses, and she announced him.
“Send him in!”
came Drumpf’s voice through the speaker, and she rose to open the door.
The doctor and
nurse entered, and she closed the door behind them.
“Mr. President;
I’m here to replace Dr. Lorentz for your daily checkup. The process will be the
same…”
Drumpf was
silent; he glanced down, with a grave countenance. The newcomers paused,
uncertain.
“Mr.
President…?” the woman said softly.
Still silent.
Dreyfuss was about to speak when at last Drumpf looked up acknowledging them.
“I was expecting
Lorentz,” he finally said. “I had things going with Lorentz.”
“He’s very sorry
he couldn’t make it today, sir. He’ll be back tomorrow unfailingly.”
“Whatever,”
Drumpf snorted, brushing off the matter with a wave of his hand. “You’re here,
let’s do this.”
Dr. Dreyfuss
opened the briefcase and brought out the pressure monitor. The president was
already removing his jacket. Meanwhile, the nurse prepared an IV line. Drumpf
set his hand on the desk; its back showed a broad bruised patch from daily
injections and IVs. She began to clean the skin with cotton, but suddenly
raised his hand, showing it to Dreyfuss.
“It hurts mostly
all the time; but since last night, there are times when I… I don’t feel
anything, like it’s gone numb.”
“Numb,” repeated
Dreyfuss. The president nodded.
“Why is that?”
Dreyfuss considered
this for a moment, then nodded.
“Sometimes we go
through unpleasant things so often we stop noticing them. The pain is still
there, but your hand grows accustomed, refuses to send the signal to your
brain, as if your tissues pretend it’s gone.”
Drumpf nodded.
The explanation seemed clear enough. He set his hand back on the desk, allowing
the nurse to swab with alcohol. He watched absently as she rubbed in erratic
motions, almost as if drawing something on his skin. He opened his mouth, but
Dreyfuss spoke first, removing the cuff.
“It’s natural to
grow numb, to stop feeling when discomfort is constant. Isn’t politics the
same? A nation grows accustomed to the abuses of a dictator, even praises the
tyrant, because it won’t admit the damage is self-inflicted. What oppressed
people does ever realize this before it’s too late? A man with vices grows
accustomed to hangovers and migraines, until they seem normal, unaware that his
guts are rotting. What of the body that starves and rots? And isn’t a ruler the
head, and the nation, the body?”
“What about the
soul?”
Dreyfuss paused,
watching him from behind his polarized glasses as he folded the pressure cuff.
Drumpf thought his face looked oddly familiar.
“Christian
religion says… I understand you’re a Christian, right?” said the doctor. “…that
the soul is born pure, belonging to paradise, in God’s presence. But what of a
selfish, loveless soul? What is left of a man’s soul who strips others, telling
himself they asked for it? What of a lustful man who abuses young girls,
telling himself they enjoyed it?”
“What the hell
are you—?” Drumpf began, “Remember I am—!” But Dreyfuss raised a hand, holding
a syringe identical to the one the nurse was using on his IV; with sudden
speed, he brought it an inch from the president’s forehead, stopping just
short. Drumpf fell silent, eyes bulging.
“You,” said
Dreyfuss calmly, “are the man who grew numb after so many injections. The man
who no longer feels anyone matters but himself. You are that child who was raised
Christian and threw away his soul.”
“I ask you: what
is left of a man’s soul who uses his power to enrich himself, who strips his
people of health care? What of a man who builds concentration camps for the
nonwhite, convinced they’re all criminals? What of a man who wrecks the
economy, denies women’s rights, criminalizes those whose gender preferences he
dislikes?” The doctor set the syringe on the desk and turned to the window, his
back to the president. “Tell me, can the soul die? And how long until you find
out?”
Drumpf reacted,
seizing the syringe, pointing it at the doctor like a gun.
“Who the hell
are you to tell me this, idiot? You come to threaten me, give me lessons? I’m
the president, stupid! Tonight you’ll be in my Alcatraz with the alligators! I
want to see your face when you understand what you’ve done!”
The doctor
straightened, removed his glasses, and slowly turned. Beneath his brown hair,
his features were starkly outlined by the light from the window… but there was
nothing else. No eyes, no nostrils, only smooth skin. And from that faceless
flesh came his voice:
…Would you
recognize the face of your own damnation?”
Drumpf jolted at
the sight; had he not been caked in makeup, he would have gone livid. The
faceless man took a step toward him, and the president stumbled back, tripped
over the chair, and fell flat on his back. The faceless man and the nurse
watched him convulse on the floor until he went still, unconscious, breathing
noisily.
The IV bag had
slipped onto his chest; Lady Satan drew the needle from his hand and paused to
swab the skin with alcohol.
“Seriously?”
said Sage. She straightened with a shrug, and the two of them headed for the
door.
Epilogue
“…I’m doing my
best to end the war in Ukraine,” Ronald Drumpf was saying on the monitor. “You
know, we’re not losing American lives… it’s mostly Russian and Ukrainian
soldiers. I intend to get to heaven if possible. I’ve heard I’m not doing well.
I’m at the bottom of the totem pole. But if I manage to reach heaven, this will
be one of the reasons…”
The image cut to
the furious face of the Answers Only host.
“You heard him;
a failed wheeler-dealer to the bitter end. Now Ron hears footsteps on the roof
and realizes he’s spent his whole life being the exact opposite of the ‘good
Christian’ his brainwashed followers want to see him as. And his solution? He
wants to buy salvation like it’s a business transaction. I bet some pastor had
a rough time when Ron asked how many lives he needed to save to bribe Jesus
Christ and cancel his one-way ticket to hell! Somebody please tell him that’s
not how it works. That aside from the fact his ‘business proposal’ is with
Ukraine while, here at home, he’s starting to deploy National Guard troops to
occupy his own country, to subdue cities that don’t have Republican
governments. ‘We’ll pay for my sins with good deeds somewhere that isn’t
cumbersome while I keep building up my dictatorship and trampling Latinos.’
What do y’all think?”
The host leaned
back in his chair and added:
“As for his post
on Drumpf Social demanding that ‘Fake News WWB’ cancel our show and fire me,
I’ve got only one answer, Ron: come and get me if you can! This is V.M. won’t-back-down
Sage, over and out.”
Marietta Là-bas
paused the broadcast and finished her cognac. She set the phone aside and
smiled. She still thought they’d squandered a unique opportunity, but V.M. was
right: better to act without losing one’s integrity—to be better than those
you’re fighting.
Besides, she
hadn’t wasted it entirely; at the last new moon, her coven had focused the Erinyes’
curse during their rite, with the medication she had injected into Drumpf laid
upon her altar. It was, in fact, the perfectly effective medicine he received
daily; she had neither replaced nor tainted it… nor could one even say the
curse amounted to a metaphysical “poison.” Its only effect would be to bring
the hand of the Erinyes to deliver justice in due measure.
With luck it
would happen by legal means—by impeachment—so that the vice president, just as
corrupt but still in possession of his reasoning, could not take his place. But
whatever came about, they would face one problem at a time.
One only needed
patience; the gods keep their own time.
Marietta poured
herself another glass and drank with satisfaction.
CREDITS
At the
Bottom of the Totem Pole
is a tribute to fans and collectors of classic comic book characters.
At the
Bottom of the Totem Pole
Copyright © 2025 Luis G. Abbadie. Credit must always be given to the author.
Marietta Là-bas
/ Lady Satan, originally published in 1941, was created by George Tuska; it is
in the public domain due to legal quirks. Similarly, Desdemona Mather, created
by Gardner Fox, Steve Englehart, and Vincent Coletta (1972), is in the public
domain due to legal quirks. V.M. Sage and related elements were created by
Steve Ditko (1967), and its early stories are in the public domain due to legal
quirks. Rosen Cruz was created by Alejandro Joya and is used with his
permission.
This is a work
of fiction, in which any resemblance to real-life characters and situations is
subject to the rules of parody, and is not intended in any way to constitute a
faithful representation of reality.
FOOTNOTES
“Tisiphone and Megara! Do you not fear my voice? / Will you not rush with cruel scourges, across the emptiness of Erebus, / wretched soul? For, by her very name, / I will bring them forth and, Stygian bitches [the Furies], into this upper light / I will take them and chase them—as a guard—from pyres and burials, / I will drive them away from the tombs and drive them from all the funerary urns. / And you, Hecate, before the gods, to whom you often come disguised in another form, / I will show you wasted in your pale appearance, / and I will prevent you from changing the face you wear in Erebus. / I will divulge what banquets under the great weight of the earth sustain you, / maid of Enna [i.e., Persephone], and by what bond / you love the afflicted king of the night; and what defilements you have suffered, / For which Ceres refused to claim from you. / For you, worst ruler of the universe [Pluto], I will send the Titan [the Sun] into your broken caverns / and you will be suddenly struck down by daylight. / Are you all ready? Or to that one / who must be addressed, who was never invoked / without making the earth tremble, who can see the Gorgon unveiled, / who punishes eager Fury with her own whips, / who possesses the inscrutable part of Tartarus, for whom you are the gods above, and can renounce itself for the Stygian waters?” (Lucan, Pharsalia; 61-65 e.v.)