The Dabbler - Before the Throne of Mephisto

Chapter Five

I was apprenticed to Mephisto for several years. It would take me a couple years to recount all our adventures, not to mention what all he taught me in hypnotism and mesmerism. Besides, I've never really been the type with a hankering for teaching. I teach lessons just fine, in a way, but my students probably would have preferred to go without the lesson in the first place. If you catch my meaning, anyway.

But one winter, it felt different. I knew something was bugging Mephisto. But I knew that pestering him about it would only irritate him. He'd tell me when he was good and ready.

I kept catching him with a distracted look in his eye, gazing off into nowhere. A few times he had an intensely speculative look on his face and he seemed to be ticking things off on his fingers.

The conversations he was having with his friends seemed to have a certain intensity as well.

I was feeling at odds myself.

The carnival wasn't working for me anymore; at least I could be honest about that. More than half of my friends had moved on. Big Red and Little Red were working a big circus outfit. Blondie had quit and was living on the beach in Malibu, he'd taken the incident with Budd a bit hard. Maw Keemah had passed away in her sleep, finally at peace. Others had split for other shows, other jobs, or just other places.

And I was ready for something different.

I got bored and started exploring the city a bit.

Everybody knows, now, that at the time Haight-Ashbury was the place for drugs and Castro was (and still is, I hear) for gays.

But there used to be a little place, about one or two blocks, really, where a different type of sub-culture thrived.

I was driving by one day when I felt an odd sensation, as if someone was trying to pull on my mind. I'd gotten used to something like that from Mephisto, but it irritated me and intrigued me as well.

I parked my motorcycle near the corner, and observed the area for a bit. I immediately noticed the tattooing shop wedged between two dusty bookstores. I doubted the tattooist was the culprit, but I figured I'd stop in anyway.

There was only one guy in the shop, kind of short. He was watching the news on an old TV, but he turned it off when I came in.

"Whatcha up for?" he asked.

"Not sure yet," I told him. "Just looking around the area."

"And you stopped in here first?" he blurted, surprised. "Usually everybody just goes into the bookstore."

"Which one?" I asked, figuring that was a clue as to who was trying to mess with my head.

"There's only one, it wraps around behind here," he told me.

"Thanks for the info," I told him, leaning on the counter. "So, you got any pictures of your work?"

"Uh, sure," he stammered. He pulled a thick binder from under the counter.

I was surprised to see that all he had were drawings. Most shops, especially now-a-days, keep pictures of people they've tattooed. Turned out he had no "connections" at a developer lab, and most of the camera shops viewed tattoo pictures as borderline obscene.

I kept looking over at him, as he went back to watching the news. He was kind of cute. Shorter than me by a good five inches, muscled but slender. He kept his hair clipped close, and sported a gold ring in his left ear, which wasn't so strange, in San Francisco.

But it was hard to keep my mind on admiring him, or looking at his work, with that tugging going on.

"Look, I'll be back, I do want a tattoo," I told him finally. "But there is something I need to take care of."

A look of disappointment flashed on his face, and he nodded sadly. He didn't even watch me leave the shop.

I took a deep breath and steeled myself before walking into the bookstore. A raised platform to one side held the cash register and an older man who watched the customers come and go. I drifted around the first floor for a bit before deciding what to do.

The guy at the front desk was definitely the culprit. There was a constant urge to pick up a book and buy it. I watched a couple people walk in, pick up a book without looking at it, and pay for it. I figured they were people who would not normally be in the market for used books, or people who didn't read much.

One woman was perusing the shelves avidly, and she had about five in her arms already. She pulled a book from the shelf and started leafing through it, and I decided to make her my first target. I bumped into her, made eye contact, and moved on.

Further along was a scholarly-looking man who was studying the contents of another shelf. I bumped into him too.

I mingled with the customers for a bit, and then moved back towards the front of the first floor, in direct line of sight of the front desk. With only slight concentration, I triggered my little "happening" and stood back.

The first woman let out a shriek and rushed up to the proprietor. "How dare you keep this filth in your store?" she demanded, waving the book in his face. "This is vulgar! Children come into this store, and could pick it up! How dare you? Have you no shame?"

The scholarly gent came bustling up, holding another book. "These books are worthless!" he bellowed. "There are pages ripped out! How can I use this, in this condition?"

An elderly woman popped up next to the counter. "I asked you where your restroom is!" she screeched. "You could at least answer me!"

"Do you really expect people to pay this price?" a teenager demanded arrogantly.

"Excuse, me, I can't find any of your poetry books," a young woman whined.

"Don't you have any other books of Shakespeare than these?" an older man asked.

I'm rather proud of myself. It was all just the normal senselessness you'd see in any kind of business (although the feelings might have been amplified, I admit). But the guy at the counter was completely lost. He'd gotten too used to quiet, compliant customers, thanks to his paltry mind-control attempts.

I stood in plain sight, my posture arrogant and commanding, and caught his eye. He looked at me, and as I made a gesture with my hand, his face fell. Slowly, as he realized that he was now uncontrollably jerking himself off, his face turned to horror. I made a little extra twist, as he tried to move his other hand, and his face went white.

Every time he attempted to use whatever methods he used for mind control, his mind caused him to be distracted by thoughts of masturbation.

I left the store, and re-entered the tattoo shop.

"Where were we?" I asked the shocked tattooist. I went back to looking at the drawings, and was able to concentrate, now that the mentalist next door was no longer able to annoy me.

I finally got the name of the tattooist, the name "Hammer". It didn't suit him, from what I could see.

We discussed tattoos for a bit, and I learned that he also was a piercer. We got into a discussion of different piercings, which fascinated me.

Gradually, I learned that he had been to college abroad, and he was able to describe some of the different styles of different cultures. He was able to show me drawings he had made of Inuit and Aztec-style tattoos, as well as Japanese, German, and Celtic designs.

"I had books full of different tattoos, but they wouldn't allow them into the country," he told me sadly. "I had to leave them with a friend in Amsterdam."

"That's a shame," I told him. I had already realized that Hammer had a rather submissive streak, which did not bode well for his business.

His saving grace was that he was a consummate artist. I idly speculated on some ideas, and within seconds he had a drawing of a 'D' entwined with barbed wire finished. As soon as I saw it, I started taking my shirt off.

"How much?" I asked. This question seemed to fluster him, and he busied himself with readying his equipment instead of answering me.

I took my seat in the old barber chair, and waited.

I had heard, and have since experienced with other tattooists, that a tattoo is a painful process. However, that first tattoo, with Hammer, was something else. It felt no worst than someone dragging a sharp pencil across my skin.

It seemed to go very quickly, and I was impressed with him even more. Later, with other tattooists, I would learn about bruising, scabbing, and other temporary effects of tattooing. But there was almost no bleeding with this one, and the tattoo stood out bold and beautiful on my skin.

Hammer was busying himself with cleaning up as I admired the tattoo in the mirror. When I was done with that, I followed him into the small back room where he was loading needles into an autoclave, the oven used to sterilize the equipment.

"How much do I owe you?" I asked him.

"Whatever you feel is right," he shrugged, not looking at me.

"This is my first tattoo, I have no idea what they go for," I laughed.

We went around for a while on that subject, me trying to pin him down, and him not asserting an answer.

I finally pulled out a hundred bucks and gave it to him. I told him I'd stop by again sometime, and thanked him again before leaving.

When I left, he was still staring at the money in his hand like he'd never seen twenty dollar bills before.

---

When I got back to Mephisto's, he was in a meeting with a couple of his cronies. I went back to the kitchen and fixed myself a sandwich. After I was done, I fixed him one as well.

I knocked politely on the door and went in. He looked askance at me, quirking an eyebrow.

"I noticed you hadn't eaten all day," I told him, setting the sandwich down in front of him. I nodded politely to the two men seated in the library with him. They'd gotten used to me. I didn't particularly like them, and I didn't particularly dislike them. Mephisto respected them and enjoyed their company, and I was polite to them out of respect for him.

"And I am noticing that you are extremely pleased with yourself," Mephisto replied dryly. "Would you mind fixing something for our guests as well?"

"Of course, I'm sorry," I nodded, feeling a bit ashamed. "Would roast beef, lettuce and tomato suit you gentlemen?" They both nodded pleasantly. "Mustard, mayonnaise, or butter?"

"Do you have any horseradish?" one of the men, Wixham, asked in a faint British accent. I nodded and he smiled broadly. "That would be excellent. I've had a real craving for horseradish lately. Thank you, D."

"Butter for me, D, please," the other man, who had been introduced only as Abner, told me quietly. "I don't have anyone looking out for my welfare, and my stomach has gotten a bit delicate lately."

I smiled, nodding at his understated compliment. Within a few minutes, I was back with the sandwiches and a pot of tea, which Mephisto preferred over coffee. Only after I had served his friends did Mephisto pick up his own sandwich.

"Have a seat and tell me what has got you in such good humor this afternoon," Mephisto told me before he began tearing into his sandwich.

"I found this nice little tattoo shop," I told him. "Unfortunately, it doesn't get much business, because the bookstore next door is run by a mentalist that is sucking all the customers into it. People can't help but buy a book."

Abner choked. "How far out was this compulsion extended?" he asked.

"To the other side of the street, and down to the intersections on both ends of the block," I told him. "I distracted the owner, disrupted his compulsion and got a tattoo. Would you like to see it?"

"In a moment, perhaps," Mephisto replied. "Describe the compulsion, please. How did it work?"

I described to him what I had seen and felt. And then, at their insistence, I described how I had foiled it.

"Very creative," Wixham toasted me with his tea cup. "How did you come up with all those complaints?"

"They already had those complaints, but they were being smothered," I told him. "I simply insinuated the thought that they couldn't follow the compulsion until the complaints were resolved. The elderly woman who needed to go to the bathroom was in pain, actually. The young woman who was looking for poetry was getting frustrated, because she couldn't get to the poetry section without picking up a book."

"So, by getting them to voice their complaints, you resolved conflicts that the compulsion was causing," Abner nodded. "And in that manner, you gave them a way to escape."

"I guess," I shrugged.

"I like the way you distracted the owner," Wixham nodded. "Nice job, Mephisto. I wish it were possible to find more students like him. Very creative."

"I have a feeling that there will be a bookstore on the market soon," Mephisto mused.

"It's shameful," Abner said with disgust. "Laziness, that's what it is."

"Of thought and effort," Wixham replied. "He would have had much more, and steady, business with a simple suggestion to the customers to mention the place to their friends."

"As well as one to limit shoplifting," Abner nodded.

"I would not be surprised if he's generated a bit of hostility," Mephisto noted. "Not only from the other businesses in the area, but also of the people he's pulled in. As D pointed out, some of those people had no intention of buying a book."

"Care to invest a little money?" Abner asked.

"Count me in," Wixham told him. "I like the idea of owning a bookstore."

"I, however, am not able to," Mephisto replied. "I am over-extended as it is."

"My apologies," Wixham told him.

"So, let's see this tattoo," Mephisto told me, his eyes sparkling. I peeled off my shirt and showed it to them.

"Oh, nice work," Abner nodded.

"Master, if you can do without me for a few hours each morning, I'd like to stick around Hammer's shop," I told Mephisto. "He's a very good artist, but he has a problem being in charge. I thought if I asked him for lessons, it would give me a chance to work on that."

"Boost his self-esteem and his self-confidence?" Wixham asked. "Very noble, but do you have any idea of how to do that?"

"Not yet," I admitted. I told them of how difficult it had been to get Hammer to accept the money.

"Here's what I suggest," Wixham told me. "Find some other shops, and ask them what they would charge for an apprenticeship. Then offer him that same amount, and don't take no for an answer."

"And then Mephisto can advise you on boosting his self-esteem," Abner nodded. "Or any of us, when we're around."

"I have a tattoo, a souvenir of my navy days," Wixham noted. "I wonder if he could alter it a bit."

"He's done some cover-up work," I told Wixham. "But he has no photographs, he can't get his films developed."

"That I can solve easily," Mephisto announced. "I know a few photographers in the city who develop their own film. I'm sure one of them would be glad to develop the films for him. And I think tattooing is an excellent skill for you to learn."

"But you may want to work with him in the evenings," Abner told me. "Most tattooists do more work at night than during the day."

"I'm going to mention his shop in a few places," I told them. "And the suggestion to mention him to friends as well. He's very good, that shouldn't go to waste."

"If you need assistance, let us know," Wixham told me. "That was a very fine sandwich, by the way." He rose to his feet. "I must be heading off, I want to contact my attorney before he leaves the office."

"I must be leaving as well," Abner noted, rising. "A few things to take care of before the night takes over the city."

"I do hope to see you both again soon," Mephisto nodded, getting to his feet to shake hands with them.

"Count on it," Abner replied.

I politely saw them both to the door, and then returned to Mephisto's study.

"If this plan interferes with anything, I'll gladly forget about it," I offered. "You are still my Master."

Mephisto looked at me, and sighed. "No, I am not. Don't misunderstand. But you have learned all that I can teach you at this time. It is time for you to learn by doing. And you are restless, you need to be doing something. I've watched it for some time recently. I've felt the same. The show is not the same I joined years ago, and I want a change of pace. I'll be leaving at the end of the month, on a very extended trip. But this is your home, feel free to stay as long as you like."

I gaped at him.

"You have been my apprentice, it is now time for the journeyman phase of your life," Mephisto told me patiently. "I have no fear that you will use your skills well. Perhaps not in the most moral way, but within your own moral code, which is all that I could ask. I find your personal code much more appealing than others I could name."

"Is this what has had you so preoccupied lately?" I asked him.

"I've been waiting for you to find something new to capture your interest," Mephisto nodded. "I couldn't well leave you at loose ends. But my plans were a bit flexible. I was beginning to think the best you would find was those occasional trips to that vineyard up near the Russian River. But you haven't gone up there even once since we got back."

"Where are you going?" I asked finally.

"None of your business," he replied dryly. "I'll tell you when I get back, or perhaps I'll drop you a line or two. Don't follow me, D. Let us remain former Master and apprentice, and good friends. We'll have plenty of stories to tell each other when I return, or when we cross paths again. You are more than welcome to live here as long as you wish, and as often as you wish. My contacts here all know of you, and I shall leave their information here. And you know how to reach the caretaker if you need to leave here, or return. You're well aware of how that all works."

"Yes..." I stopped myself before I could say the word 'Master'. "What do I call you now?"

"Mephisto," he replied wryly. "I promise, it won't hurt. You have not been under any compulsions for quite a while now."

"This won't be easy," I sighed, as I tried to figure out how I felt about it.

"Nothing worthwhile ever is," he told me gently. "Nor anything that is vital to our personal development. But I look forward to when we see one another again, to see what you have done, or learned, or seen. Rest assured, D, I am very proud of you."