Man with No Name: A Nanashi Novella by Laird Barron Page B

on to his stupid inside joke and its antecedent years ago. I read classical literature too , you pompous ass . I’ve Melville, Dickens, and Chaucer in the bedside cupboard. And Shelley, that bitch. On the other hand, perhaps I should be grateful. He could’ve named me Victor or Igor.
    “—Mary had a little lamb—”
    “—then she had a little mutton,” Pelt says in an accent so thick you’d need one of his pig-stickers to cut it. I don’t think Pelt likes me, our occasional drunken coupling notwithstanding. It’s not exactly easy to find a good screw in this pit. I wonder if Dr. Kob knows about Pelt and me. The Old Man is cagey—I wouldn’t be surprised if Pelt reported the results of our trysts as part of some twisted experiment like the Apted documentaries that appear on PBS every seven years. Man, I’d love to get in front of a camera and monologue about some of the shit I’ve seen. Yeah, there’s a frustrated actor in here. A frustrated nymphomaniac as well—sorry Pelt.
     
    *   *   *
     
    Midday now and I taste the ozone; my joints ache. From the parapet of the attic tower I can see way out across the water to where the horizon has shifted into black. It’s coming on fast, that rolling hell.
    The trees start to shake. Leaves come loose and flutter past my face. This is going to be a hummer. My hair is already frizzing. High elevations are bad places to be at times such as these. This particular roof is even worse than most because of all the lightning rods. Well, they aren’t exactly lightning rods in the traditional sense. They serve other uses, primarily transferring electricity to the Doctor’s lab equipment. Like a good gopher, I’ve come to make certain everything is shipshape—the array is rather delicate and must be aligned precisely. There’s nothing more complicated about the job than jiggling a television antenna until the picture clears, but it has to be right or all hell might break loose.
    I make the adjustments and then retreat inside and head for the kitchen. One of the chef’s minions, a cook named Helga, fixes me cocoa and marshmallows. I’m sitting on one of the high stools, swinging my feet and sipping my hot chocolate when Dr. Kob comes around the corner, his usually slicked hair in disarray, his tie loose and shirt untucked.
    “Mary,” he says. “You double checked the array, I presume?” He scarcely acknowledges my answer; his mind is already three jumps ahead, and besides, my loyalty is unquestioned. “One of my specimens expired last night—but all is not lost. My revivification project awaits!”
    “Remember not to talk on the phone during the storm,” I say. “I just saw an account of a woman who was fried doing dishes. Ball lightning exploded from the sink and set her on fire. It traveled through the pipes.”
    Dr. Kob stares at me, his beady eyes narrowed. He rubs his temples as if experiencing a migraine. “You’re watching the talk shows again. You know how I frown upon that, my dear. Less daydreaming, more physical exertion. Remind me to have Pelt assign you additional duties. Idle hands and all that.”
    “Sure, gimme a pitchfork and I’ll swamp out the stables.”
    “Never mention pitchforks again!”
    “Or torches.”
    “Out! Before I lose patience for your belligerence. And tomorrow, take the rod into our lovely village for quality assurance testing. I’ve altered the design. It possesses more jolt than ever.”
    “As you command,” I say sweetly. After he wanders off, I chew my cup and swallow it piece by piece. It kind of frightens me that my Pavlovian dread of the Doctor has ebbed, replaced by an abiding irritation. This is very dangerous. He’s a middle-aged megalomaniacal child—an L’ enfant Terrible . We know what rotten children do with their toys, right?
    He gave me a puppy, once. I loved her, and often imagined how she had crept into the caves of my ancestors to escape the cold and the dark. I accidentally broke the puppy’s