At the Bottom of the Totem Pole - An Episode of The Available Heroes

 

At the Bottom of the Totem Pole

Annex Episode of The Available Heroes

Story and Art: Luis G. Abbadie

(You can also read the Spanish version here)

The first duty of a revolutionary is to make the revolution.

—Ernesto “Che” Guevara

With black hatred in her heart for all oppressors, Lady Satan hurries toward the government building…

—George Tuska

 

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.)