Mark McLaughlin's Blog: Revenge of the B-Movie Monster - Posts Tagged "reincarnation"

(A tale of reincarnation, office politics, and scarabs! It first appeared on the Steel Caves website.)

Mr. Quimby's vacation ended last Friday, but he didn't come to work on Monday or Tuesday or Wednesday, so I called his house on Thursday morning to see if he was okay. I felt funny doing it since I'm only his assistant, but I thought maybe he'd slipped in the bathtub or fallen down the basement steps. They say most accidents happen in the home.

He answered the phone on the first ring. "Oh yes, I'm fine, thank you, Mark," he said. "Come round to the house, won't you? I've made the most marvelous discovery and I have to talk to someone."

So I went, even though I had a huge pile of work to do. I went that very morning to his home, which is either an extremely big house or a fairly small mansion. I banged the knocker and while I waited for him to come to the door, I thought up some questions to ask about his vacation in Egypt.

When he opened the door, I hardly recognized him. He was so tan, and his potbelly was gone, and his thick red hair was dyed black. And of course, he never wore a jewel-encrusted gold breastplate around the office.

Mr. Quimby smiled, beckoned me in with a snaking finger and closed the door whisper-quick behind me.

In his living room, we sat side by side on an overstuffed divan shaped like an Egyptian barge. He then poured me a glass of champagne (A drink before noon! I felt like a wildman!) and told me about his vacation.

He told me about the gibbous-mooned night he met Lakhma, the albino hermaphrodite tour guide. He told me about the purple and green hieroglyphic tattoos that covered the hermaphrodite's face and arms and petite cleavage. He told me about the secret tomb shown to him by Lakhma, and about the sacred chalice that collected glowing red ichor from a dripping stalactite in that tomb. The lustrous fluid was known as the Blood of Time.

One night, Mr. Quimby took a sip from the chalice. One sip was all anyone needed of that magical elixir.

"I feel reborn," Mr. Quimby said, "and Mark, I think you've been doing some fabulous work for the company. From now on, you're going to be seeing some real money." He stopped to adjust his breastplate and added, "How's that sound to you?"

All I could do was nod, like one of those little red toy birds that sip water.

Scarabs crawled in circles around us as Mr. Quimby slathered on black eyeliner and painted his nails crocodile green and rambled on about the pyramids and Osiris and Horus and Anubis and the Book of the Dead and reincarnation. "Isn't memory the funniest thing?" he said. "I can remember my previous life as Cleopatra, but I can't recall my father's birthday. Or what I had for breakfast. Or where I put my sunglasses. Or even your middle name."

"That would be Anthony, sir," I said as a scarab crawled up my leg. "Mark Anthony."

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For more strange tales, humorous and horrific, read Best Little Witch-House in Arkham.