The Fabulous Machine by Rico Dominguez

There was once, in the Province of Bane, a most curious and controversial contraption. It attracted sight seers from the four corners of the tired, old country; from everywhere that word of mouth could carry its mysterious existence to. So strange was this news upon first hearing it, that anyone from any walk of life had the potential of being compelled to make a distant pilgrimage to Bane to see it. It was a machine, a fantastic, fabulous machine. All the residents of Bane had great respect for this machine, and, so also, anyone else who had the privilege to lay eyes upon it. For it was so amazing, so dumbfounding, that no one had yet ever been able to figure who built it, how it worked, or to what its purpose. In this modern day, the notion is the more compact and efficient the machine is the better. This, however, fortunately, was not the case long ago in Bane, when the mysterious machinist bore this amazing masterpiece into existence, and gifted it to all. At this point the human language is insufficient to adequately describe the experience of seeing this machine. Words fall flatly smooth while describing this roughly textured entity. Nonetheless, the frail description follows: The machine was a virtual mountain of intricately connected, moving iron plates and beams. It stood seven times as high as a person, sat morbidly obese and ponderous upon its steadfast metal base. It seemed to be constructed with a keen sense of redundancy and repetetiveness; an esoteric design designed to encumber its true nature by the very nature of its intricacy and repetition. At some angles one could peer right through the mechanism to the other side, looking past an array of powerful gleaming pistons. Looking closely, one could spy delicately strewn hair-like strands of gold and copper, fanned-out in all directions, sometimes all running together at once, and others in various degrees, shooting off by themselves, weaving into geographically-estranged encasements,-lost to dark inner framework. There were areas that looked as if they could swivel back and forth with ferocious, powerful accuracy. Other iron beams seemed to barely hang, and gave precarious appearances, as if being at the point of breaking their very hinges, -upon, to which, they desperately clung. There were areas where wide belts connected a gnashing assemblage of exposed gear teeth and circular saw-like disks. On one side, there opened in a frozen iron yawn, a large gape in the twisting, angular frame, so as to give the overall appearance of the mechanism on a general first glance, a pinching, maniacal grimace. Directly below the machine's gape, there jutted a small and unobtrusive control panel containing various knobs, levers, buttons, meters, and switches. It was here that there was splayed amongst the beams and rivets, just enough space for one lone operator to orchestrate the function of the entire mechanism. Yet, for one to position themselves in such proximity, by the very magnitude of the structure looming above, took an iron will. And it was due to this very fact, that no one person had ever been willing to be the first to try to rouse into action this sleeping, iron Goliath. There were many debates over and over, over many years, over what this strange device could be. It infected the entire community with its presence. This was quite evident in the architecture of Bane, which could prove to be profoundly intricate and somewhat absurd to any non-resident. Social interactions in Bane took on a life all their own, as well as the mode of dress. This specific aesthetic was a simple reaction to the giant iron mystery in the town center. And how could a community not react to this entity, which by its very nature and strong existence, seemed to take on a life-like quality? Due to all the energy and influence forced around it, it seemed as though it had a mind and a will of its own; a master plan to which only the machine's yet quiet process could ultimately know. This menacing presence was felt in every movement of the town. It echoed in the houses, in the social interactions and in the bedrooms late at night. Each and every resident had their personal reaction to the machine, and as a result, life in Bane became like the machine: a mysterious interaction, a transaction without a significant end, pleasure that fulfilled no meaningful purpose. No consequence or reason for art, just posture and mystery for mystery's sake. There sprung up within close proximity to this wondrous machine, many machine building shops. And stocked within the stores were the merchants and machinists who hoped to reap the beneficial rewards of such a magnificent mechanical centerpiece. They spent long hours, sometimes from dusk till dawn, toiling away amongst their molten-laden tools. Hammering and sweating with anticipation, they, creating their own machines, to somehow capture inspiration from the entity that still silently grimaced there in the dark, beyond the sooted windows of their metal shops. In the morning the machinists adorned the dew-dropped streets with presentations of their newly constructed devices. Most of these metallurgic concoctions did perform little function whatsoever, yet, more importantly, they looked and operated in the most fantastically intricate of ways. On any given morning, one could walk down Main Street and spy an array of egg-bashers, clothes dryers, clothes soakers, automatic wood choppers, steam-powered hammers, steam-powered scarecrows, combustion engine bread-makers, electro-magnetic love enhancers, static-reinforced noodle producers, and electric instruments. The machines, though little function bore, always sold very well, since the town was in constant onslaught by foreigner-sightseers, tourist-travellers, vagabonds, ruffians, villains, and outright scoundrels from the five corners of the old country. There was, in fact, quite some money to be had in this transient respect, and Bane's inhabitants all reaped the rewards brought to them by the frenzied cloud that this strange, amazing, machine in the center of town did quietly kick-up. It was a few years in the future, in the height of popularity, that the good mayor of Bane, being an opportunist beyond opportunity, decided to engage the tedious task of, perhaps, the greatest endeavor any one person from the six corners of the old country had ever personally taken-on to undertake: to discover the function of the fabulous machine. She appointed her most loyal and cherished advisors to advise, her skeptics to be skeptical, her servants to be servile, and her intellectuals to babble on endlessly into the night. She called on every being that would hear, to come to Bane and examine this machine, to do the unthinkable that now had been thought. She wanted someone to turn on the fabulous machine. At first, she was ridiculed. Some residents tried to burn her house, while others twisted up their face in silent scorn. The politicians had her over for wine to secretly examine her and her motivations. The machinists had her over for beer to secretly debunk her and her methods. The folk had her over for tea to "accidentally" spill it on her and her clothes. This idea scared everyone a great deal. They were not ready to accept the idea that the machine would be operated, that they would find out once and for all, what, if anything, it really did. After a period of much resistance, the good mayor gave up on finding someone who was open and willing to give the machine a scientific once-over. People were just too spooked at this idea. Yet, a good curious thought cannot be un-thought. Slowly, the residents of Bane became feverishly aware of their true thirsts, their base motivations for most everything they did. Their very identities were somehow falsely wrapped up around this menacing machine, and their curiosity could hold out no longer. One afternoon, there was news about town that a young, unkempt man by the name of Jord Yorx was causing quite a ruckus by way of the fabulous machine. He had been staring most of the morning, a not uncommon reaction, yet, by the afternoon he had stood up and walked directly over to it. He began touching it in its most curiously constructed areas. By dusk, passers-by were angered and most surely aroused by this strange gesture on the part of Yorx. This foreigner seemed to be having a foreign experience. When the mayor heard of this peculiar news from one of her posted minions, she sent for the young man straight-away. After many questions over few complex cultural ideologies, the mayor decided that this man, Yorx, was a complete fool. He knew nothing of culture or refinement, the things that would most certainly be needed to comprehend, or even grasp-a-wisp of the spark about this fabulous machine's purpose. Her council was about to throw the dirty little man out to the streets when he plainly said, "I'm sorry that I don't know more about your beautiful palaces, politics or your foods. I don't know about your methods, or understand the reasons you ask your servants to remain loyal. But I do know certain types of machines. I think I know that machine, you know, the amazing one you have down in your town square." And Yorx was right. He had a profound grasp of certain machinery. It made sense to him. It was orderly and mathematical. Long ago, his father had been a clandestine machinist in the far lowlands, and had taught to Yorx through example, not only a lowered sense of social hygiene, but inexplicable machinery, the wonderful, complex, incomprehensible, fabulous, apex of machinery. So, Yorx set out to study, and ultimately rouse from deep slumber, this fabulous machine. For a week he only sat and contemplated this machine from various angles and distances. One day he sat with his back against the machine listening to the wind whine through its gears and whistle over its pistons. He tasted lubrication off the joints of various areas, during certain times and temperatures of the day. He ate, drank, slept, amongst other unspeakable things, right beside or behind his mechanical companion. At moments, he was observed by bewildered on-lookers, to burst open into full, roaring laughter. Other days he would sit with his head resting against one of the great iron manifolds and sob so bitterly, that no one could make out what his drool-dribbling mouth could be spurting. After a while, he became awkward with self-induced mental fatigue. He turned repulsively statuesque and moved slowly about the machine, briefly glancing in silent awe. He did not leave its side once, until the day he was ready to make his proclamation. The populations gathered as always, growing in disapproving apprehension, as Yorx suddenly sulked away from the mighty assemblage. He spoke for the first time in two weeks: "I have studied this machine. At first I thought I knew what it might do. Upon closer inspection, I realized I was completely wrong. Gaining a new perspective, I then saw a few things I had never seen. I began to think I was on the right track. Then, I had a personal stroke of brilliance, an amazing, insightful breakthrough and am now more confused than I ever was before." Upon hearing this, the crowd grew disheartened, yet relieved. Yorx then spoke again. "I think... I just want to try to turn it on. I just want to be here and see it with my own eyes." The entire town had gathered at this point, and it was at this point that the entire town gave out a low, synchronous gasp of excited terror. The circle of people around the machine expanded, as the residents of Bane receded in apprehension of this machine and its lone, appointed orchestrator. The future at this moment was completely foreign to all experiencing it. It sparkled with an uneasy uncertainty that would never be felt or rivalled again in any of their lives. Yorx humbly, slowly, moved beneath the poised afternoon shadow of the great iron animal. He made his way to the control panel and positioned himself amongst the levers, gauges, fluid-level hash-marks and switches. He knew, in part, what each lever and switch might do to some extent. His knowledge of machinery had given him this, if any, insight. He had in days previous, followed as best he could the inner skeletal construction of how its delicate control panel interfaced with the mighty steel muscle of its outer framework. He had envisioned this moment for a long, long time, and now, he was here. He paused, momentarily. He chose his favorite lever, depressed the brass handle and pulled firmly down. There was a clanking, but nothing happened. He then pulled his second choice and flipped the switch he was most interested in. There again was a clank, clank. But the iron giant still begrudgingly sat silent, eerily motionless, frozen and silent. It was in this strange moment that the fabulous machine gave up its first secret. Centered just above the entire panel was a flip-up switch-covering that was quite well concealed and seemed to be built somewhat as an afterthought to the rest of the central mechanism. Yorx, though he had examined this machine more closely, too closely, than he had ever really examined anything else in his whole life, had never noticed this small device before. He immediately reached up, flipped open the covering and froze in amazement. Another gasp bolted through the audience. Beneath the drab, grey cover was a bright-as-blood, red button. In contrast to the rest of the metallic sheen of the shiny machine, this was absolutely shocking in appearance. Some say it was this discovery that seemed to give Yorx instant insight into the heart of the machine's ultimate purpose. Then Jord Yorx, the man who had come to this place from somewhere out in the horrible seven corners of the old country, and enamored this machine with every ounce of his inspiration, expertise and strength, turned to the restless residents of the Province of Bane with a strangely calm expression on his face, and spoke one final time: "What is the function of existence?" With this, he smiled, turned, put his finger squarely on the circle, precisely on the smooth center, and gently, yet firmly, pushed the beckoning button. At first, there was no sound, no movement, no reaction at all, except that now the entire control panel was illuminated in the most beautiful hues of different colors of blinking lights. Then, from down below, practically in the ground, there arose a heavy, deep, hum. This hum increased in pitch and volume, and as it did, other frequencies joined it from unseen, cast-iron organs buried within the tangle of mercurial elbow-joints and L-braces. The entire surroundings began to vibrate in thick waves of rising and falling amplitude. Windows on adjacent streets to the machine shattered their panes in numeric succession, as these low frequencies steadily mounted and broke in peals over the pitched roofs. It was later noted that certain fine crystals in the homes of aristocrats many, many miles away began to resonate and sing in wondrous independence. When the whining had reached a high, almost unbearable pitch, a distinct, rhythmic pattern unfolded from out the dissonance as the machine began to tremble and shift upon its once-steadfast foundation. Whirring, seemingly out of control, it now outstretched numerous powerful iron limbs in an amazing display of its fabulous design. It became a blur of plates and pistons, springs and pinions, ballasts, billowing beneath bundled bodices of gears, grinding solidly against the steel circumferences of spherical ball-bearings, rolling their way through perfectly smoothed cylindrical bores. It really began winding itself up, aligning its long, hammer-like appendages in an expansive, final reach toward the sky. It sat for one, brief, glorious moment in this position, gathering its last gargantuan grasp of momentum. It then sprung this immense tension-filled mass foreward and downward-snapping, in an all-encompassing, brutally-beautiful, hammering embrace on the small, smiling, bewildered human manning its controls. So quick was this movement, once unleashed, and so powerful the blow that ensued, that there was nothing left of the lone operator when the machine cried and whined in a lethargic wind-down into the posture of its original position. This was the ultimate function of the Fabulous Machine. It was built with an expert, perfect precision. And now, without a doubt, everyone learned the cruel, meaningless lesson of its bizarre end result. This menacing presence was felt in every movement. It echoed in the houses, in social interactions and in the bedrooms very late at night. All the residents had a strange respect for it, for it was more horribly beautiful than anything anyone had ever created anywhere in the Province of Bane thus far. It sat silently there, untouched, alone in the town square with its frozen, iron grimace. It was a machine, a fantastic, fabulous machine; a most curious and controversial contraption. cubby missalette 7