Emet
(Author's note: the idea for this story stems from two sources: the Greek story of Pygmalion, who fell in love with his own sculpture, and the Jewish tale of the Golem. From My Fair Lady to Frankenstein, there have been numerous adaptations of these tales. This particular incarnation was the result of a request by Selena Kitt to compose a new version of a fairy tale or myth. It is decidedly not a feel-good romance, but is rather rendered in the vein of classic passion plays and morality tales. I hope you enjoy.)
* * * *
Emet always dreaded the walk home from the train station. Aside from the perpetually chilling dampness and the constantly overcast sky -- why he had been cursed to call this miserable coastal city home, he could not fathom -- it was the human element that bothered him the most. To walk amongst these particular dregs made him lament the circumstance of his birth. The drugs, the poverty, the desperation sapped at him, ironically stealing the very humanity from his soul, bit by bit, like mosquitoes.
The Devil's Block, he often thought acidly. An appropriate name for this place.
Most ignored him, thankfully enough; he was no man of means, a fact revealed starkly by his clothing, so that made him target for neither beggars nor thieves, and even the pushers left him alone. But the women . . . .
He snorted derisively when he saw them. They always came to mock him, to flaunt their bodies and display themselves as the tawdry whores they were. Whether it was the pale of the day or the pitch of the night, they wore only what they needed to preserve whatever it was they considered modesty. They reeked of sweat and cigarettes and whichever cheap perfume they could scavenge after purchasing their narcotic of choice. There was one in particular, whose disgusting status was made even more tragic by the fact that she really could have been a very pretty woman. She was the worst, for her lack of shame was inversely proportionate to her physical charms.
"Well, hey sweetie!" she called, strutting from her usual perch at the corner. She always plied her trade from that same corner, beneath the leering eyes of a stone gargoyle seven stories directly above. Emet found that poetically just, for he saw the stony beast not as a protector of the dilapidated building, but as a watchdog for the Devil who oversaw the wretchedness of the world beneath.
Emet winced at the sound of the prostitute's salacious voice. It was only his personal etiquette that bade him pause and respond. "Dierdre," he rasped to the buxom redhead, both glaring at the woman while admiring the pale ripeness of her nearly-revealed breasts.
She stopped and leaned in, thrusting her cleavage toward the slightly-built man while peering within the large paper sack he carried. "What'cha got? Been to the market?"
He stiffened, wrinkling his nose at the acidic scent wafting from the woman. "If you must know, it is twenty-five pounds of clay I need to finish my latest sculpture."
She straightened, shaking her head and smacking her gum. The iridescent vermilion of her lips glowed in contrast to her pale, smooth face. Emet watched them move as she spoke again, wondering how many men she had serviced with that same mouth.
"You and your sculptures," she remarked. "Like you're some kind of fucking artist or something. What, you think you're gonna get rich some day? Move out of the Devil's Block?"
He sneered. "I don't need to be rich," he snapped. "But, yes, some day I will move out of this Dante-inspired place, and you know what?"
Dierdre planted her hands on her hips. "What."
"I would surely not return here to soil myself with a disgusting whore such as yourself."
For a brief moment, Dierdre looked insulted, but she covered it well, emitting a cackle as pale blue eyes drifted critically up and down Emet's lanky body. "I knew it," she said at last.
"Knew what?"
She passed a glistening tongue across her upper lip and allowed her eyes to drop momentarily to the sculptor's crotch. "You wanna fuck me."
He recoiled visibly, mouth agape in revulsion. "I would sooner perform cunnilingus on a goat," he declared.
She blinked, face blank. "Huh?"
Emet rolled his eyes. "Leave me alone," he growled, then resumed his march along the sidewalk.
She called after the shuffling man. "Always nice talking to you, Emet Lowe!"
* * * *
His foul mood did not dissipate upon arriving at the building wherein he lived. The aging edifice was unremarkable in that it resembled dozens of other such constructions within the Devil's Block. Made of brick and mortar, at one time it -- like the others along the street -- had been home to well-to-do families before the intrusion of poverty. Once-inspiring gables had sagged, shingles had slipped from the roofs, and the bricks themselves looked tired and haggard from the burden they bore.
Kicking away trash before the short stairwell to his basement abode, Emet stiffened at the shrill sound of his landlady's voice.
"Rent's due in a week, Mr. Lowe. You gonna be on time?"
He forced as amenable a smile as he could muster and looked up to the portly woman. She stood like a beggar queen at the head of the stairs before the door to the house proper. He could nearly smell the woman in her stained and wrinkled house dress. She glared back in expectation, dark little eyes almost concealed by the prolific chubbiness of her face.
"Of course, Mrs. Rudolf," he answered. "Haven't I always been on time?"
"So far," she retorted. "But I keep waiting. I don't much want to clean up that mess you've made down there."
Emet frowned. "What mess?"
"All that stuff you got laying around. It smells funny. And what is it you got under the sheet down there?"
Emet bristled. "You've been in my rooms?"
She stared back. "They're my rooms, Mr. Lowe. I can come and go whenever I want. You're just a tenant."
The slender man resisted the urge to snap back. "I assure you, I am not making a mess, as you may think. And I would like to remind you that I have, for seven months, been a good tenant."
Mrs. Rudolf's face soured as the little man scuffed his was down the steps to his door. "Nothing lasts forever," she muttered under her breath.
* * * *
"The nerve! The audacity! The sheer arrogance of that vile, malodorous woman! And those whores! Why must I be surrounded by the very worst of femininity?" Emet cried once his door was closed behind him and the heavy bag of clay had been deposited upon the only table in the spacious room. He nearly ripped his coat as he jerked his arms free of the sleeves and hurled it toward one of only two chairs. His rooms -- the main one in which he stood was accompanied by a single small bathroom and closet -- were cool and damp, perfect for the plying of his art. He possessed little in the way of furniture; a table, two chairs, a simple bed and a single dresser of drawers. Much of the space framed by cold, sweating bricks was devoted to his art.
Numerous clay sculptures lay along the wall beside the door, rendered as small animals or mythical creatures. They fetched fair enough prices at the various stores which deigned to sell them, enough for Emet to cover the costs of his impoverished life. But they were mere trinkets, carved to appease the children of the upper classes and those society madams who thought it "quaint" to indulge in a poor sculptor's offerings. They possessed little of Emet's spirit and desire . . . unlike the magnum opus which lay beneath the soiled white cloth in the center of the room.
He approached the linen-clad statue with reverence akin to a devoted worshiper entering a house of God, enjoying, for the moment, the sense of anticipation which always nibbled at his heart upon doing so. His hands -- strong and firm from a lifetime of kneading and shaping -- reached for the cloth, drawing it away like the sarong of a lover.
"But not you, my sweet," he whispered in awe, gazing upon the form he had crafted. Eyes which looked upon the world through a harsh veneer now softened, taking in the perfection before him. "You are not like any of those. You are my Aphrodite, my Calypso."
The statue was sublimely nude, seated upon a simple blocks of cheap, discarded cinder. The dampness of the air made her pale skin glisten, accentuating the lines of her arms and legs, the fullness of ripe breasts, the painstakingly detailed curls of sparse hair above the simple slit of her sex. Every bit of her body had been carefully and lovingly detailed, save for the round, featureless face. Emet had saved that for last, allowing his dreams to foment, over time, the vision of his personal goddess.
"The time has finally come, my dear," he announced to the statue. He took up the heavy bag from the table and tore it open, allowing blocks of moist clay to tumble to the floor. "Tonight, you shall finally have your face. Tonight, you shall be complete."
* * * *
The hours were spent in silence save for the wet smack of clay and the belabored breathing of a dutiful sculptor. As the world outside devolved into night, Emet remained with his creation, applying the clay slowly, systematically, as the vision in his head was rendered into immutable reality. First was the neck, extending strongly from its base, the line of a firm tendon leading to the edge of the jaw, then to the ear just above it. Emet took special care in shaping the lips and cheeks, wanting his perfect woman to possess the strength of Helen or Eleanor, but also the demure, innocent sweetness of Andromeda or Pandora.
The nose, first, then the eyes, were particularly challenging. He shaped and reshaped, wetting his hands with water from a bucket. The face in his dreams was hazy and vague, but as he continued, it coalesced slowly as each feature was rendered in clay.
He gave his perfect woman thick, luxurious locks, piled atop her head with a few Medusa-like curls settling upon her rounded cheeks and trailing the length of her neck. He envisioned the statue's hair as being of burnished copper, or perhaps the purest sun-kissed gold. Every curl, every lick, every tendril was maddeningly rendered until Emet was satisfied.
Once he finally stepped back to admire the beauty of his creation, even the Devil's Block, with its offensive music blaring from passing cars, the shouts and insulting cries and degenerate expletives, had grown quiet. The world, as far as Emet Lowe was concerned, had vanished. He was alone with his creation, which suited him just fine.
"Now to name you, my lovely," he said, flushed and tired. Thin lips stretched into a smile as his eyes wandered over the wet, hardening clay. "As if there were any other choice, really. I cannot name you anything but Galatea."
He stared into sightless eyes which glimmered wetly beneath carefully-formed lashes. If only you could come to life, he mused silently, then frowned with an afterthought. His eyes fell to the sculpted woman's left foot. Ah, yes. My signature, he thought, then dropped to his knees before the figure.
Every one of his creations bore a tiny inscription in the clay marking its creator, and this one could not suffer its absence. With a simple chisel and tiny hammer, he chipped into the clay just beneath the left ankle.
"Emet."
He sat up with a wrinkled brow, wondering why he did not simply carve his initials as he always did. But glancing up to the face of his goddess beyond the gentle swell of her belly and the upturned mounds of her exquisite breasts, he realized he could not have given her the same banal epitaph worn by so many meaningless creations. She deserved more.
Fatigue was finally encroaching upon him. With a groan, he rose and stumbled to the bathroom door. Dank, cracked tile and comparable mirror greeted him. The porcelain of the sink and toilet were stained to a shade of candlelight seen in dirty bordellos. Pipes protested behind the walls when he turned on the faucets to wash his hands. Bits of greyish clay swirled in the basin before slipping into the greasy blackness of the drain. A nail brush removed what little remained.
Drying his hands upon a tattered towel, Emet returned to the studio with the anticipation of gazing upon his personal Venus as he fell asleep. There would be no drape for her tonight.
The towel dropped to the floor, falling from shaking hands.
"Wh-where is she?"
His eyes fell to the rough stump upon which the statue had sat. In the pale, blue-white light streaming through his windows from the street lights above, it yet glistened as if from the moisture of a lover. Panic sliced through Emet with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel aiming for his heart.
Did someone steal her? How? I only turned away for a moment!
His gaze shot chaotically around the apartment, spying the still-closed door with its three bolt locks in place, the intact windows beside the door, even the sealed-up flue of what had once been the laundry chute for the old building. The obvious conclusion was that his statue had not been taken, yet . . . where did she go?
The sound of movement from his little kitchenette made Emet freeze.
Ssssmack. Ssssmack.
He turned his head slowly, seeing only her silhouette against the stark light of the windows: Voluptuous body, thick-locked hair dangling past a cherubic face. The erect points of her nipples stood out in stark relief against the background. One leg moved, planting a foot upon the ground, then another. The figure moved slowly.
Ssssmack. Ssssmack.
"Oh my God!" The exclamation burst from Emet's lips before he realized he was speaking.
The figure stopped, then pivoted, facing him. The simple light pouring forth from his bathroom allowed the faintest glimpse of her face. What the sculptor saw was an innocent, wide-eyed expression akin to wonder and confusion. The lush lips of a classically full mouth parted as if to speak, but no sound issued forth.
Emet stumbled back, staring in bewildered awe. The woman before him was clearly the selfsame statue he had just minutes before finished, yet, how could that be? She was a construct of clay, not flesh and blood. There was no heart to beat, no arteries to carry blood, no brain to think. There was no possible way, in heaven or on Earth, for this creation of clay and water to be alive.
Yet it was.
She reached for him hesitantly, as if not knowing what to do. Emet recoiled, but it seemed obvious to him that his creation was not about to attack. As if a newborn child, she was simply curious, unsure, confused. With that realization, Emet understood.
Tentatively, he approached, reaching to touch her hand. He tried not to focus upon the delicious nakedness of the woman before him, although he did notice the inhuman glow of perfectly golden hair upon her plump sex.
"It's okay," he cautioned, gracing her fingertips with his. "You're safe here. You're safe with me."
She seemed to acquiesce gingerly, allowing him to take her hand, touch her arm. Emet was surprised to find her warm to the touch, as any real woman would be. Carefully, he stepped closer, the features of her face becoming more clearer. She had soft, glimmering eyes the color of polished pennies, eyes which drank him in.
He led her to one of the chairs beside the table. "Here. Have a seat. Are you cold?"
She shook her head slowly, even as she settled onto her rump in the rickety chair. Her gaze remained fixed upon his face, as if seeking direction.
"So, you can understand me," he said, letting go of her hand and taking a step back. With new eyes, he appraised her nude body. She is the most beautiful woman in the world, he thought. A stirring within his loins made him feel a bit uncomfortable. He made an effort to quell the rush of desire. "Can you speak?"
She opened her mouth once again, pale pink lips parting with a hint of moisture, revealing a healthy tongue and fine teeth beyond. Her jaw and lips worked as if to make a sound, yet nothing issued forth. She frowned, then looked down as if in shame.
"It's all right, Galatea," Emet said quickly with all the sympathy of a father to a daughter. He took her hands once again. She is like a child, he thought. Or, at least, a child in mind. Newly birthed, feeling the desires of life, but not yet knowing how to follow them.
She looked up at the sound of the name he had given her, brow furrowing slightly.
He smiled. "Yes. Galatea. That is your name. That is who you are."
She sat up straight, clutching the sculptor's hands gently as she seemed to contemplate his words. While she did so, Emet's eyes roamed over the exquisite body he had given his creation. He was grateful for the detail he had applied to her crafting, for there was nothing about Galatea that did not conform to his fantasies. She was voluptuous without being Rubenesque, demure without being childish. The firm shape of her breasts defied gravity, pushing plump pink nipples up toward the ceiling, while the soft yet firm shape of her belly only accentuated the golden-haired treasure beneath.
Her eyes followed his, and fell to what her creator beheld. Still maintaining that expression of demure innocence, Galatea parted her thighs, allowing full access to Emet's questing gaze.
He swallowed thickly, feeling his heart hammering with arousal and anxiety. The plump lips of his creation's sex parted, allowing the glistening, sleek inner folds to play out like the petals of a blossoming rose. The bulbous head of her clitoris swelled and pushed outward, shining like a pearl above a bed of pure, pink silk.
Emet cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Y-you shouldn't do that," he stammered, attempting in vain to tear his gaze from that succulent vision of sexual loveliness.
Galatea's response was to spread her legs even more brazenly. She reclined in the chair, slipping her firm buttocks to the edge. Her labia flared, glistening as if with true womanly arousal.
Emet pulled his hands from hers and forced himself to meet her penny-colored eyes. "You don't know what you're doing--" he began, but caught his words in the back of his throat when she reached to cup the obvious bulge beneath his dirty pants. Her touch was firm yet soft, massaging and exploring. Her sweet round eyes quested within his.
"You . . . you cannot know what you are doing," he said, even as she lowered her gaze and brought up her other hand. Lips pouting and eyes glowing with what seemed to be interest, Galatea worked her fingers to undo Emet's pants, pushing them off his hips. He wore nothing beneath, and his erection jutted out firmly and fully, surrounded at the root by a thick patch of dark, sweat-dampened hair.
She smiled, then, cheeks bulging, and lifted her hands to caress the firmness of Emet's cock. The sculptor shivered, wavering on his feet. It had been years since he had been touched in this way. And never before had he felt the sweet, searing heat and luxurious wetness that now bathed him as Galatea bent and slid her soft, eager mouth around his shaft.
"Oh, God," he panted, light-headed, reflexively pushing forward. He watched in rapture as the full length of his penis disappeared into the accommodating mouth of his impossibly alive statue. He groaned when her nose pressed against his flat abdomen, her chin against his hairy testicles. She suckled him affectionately, pulling and caressing with lips and tongue. Her hands caressed up and down along the outsides of his thighs, then between to find and knead his swollen sacs.
This is not real, he thought even as he pumped into Galatea's mouth. It cannot be. But, by God in Heaven, nothing has ever felt so delicious, so pure . . . surely no whore upon the street above could match my Galatea's skill at giving pleasure.
Such thoughts faded away, destroyed and cast upon the winds of lust as the pleasure continued. Emet grunted and moaned, settling his hands to either side of Galatea's head and entangling his fingers in her hair. He jabbed and pushed, feeding his lover the full length of his staff again and again, and never did she balk, or gag, or protest in any way. She merely continued sucking, pulling, massaging, coaxing out from within him the gift he had rarely shared with a woman throughout his life.
"Oh, Galatea! My angel! My goddess! My--" further appraisals became gibberish as Emet groaned and bucked against his lover, feeling the rush of supreme pleasure as it sped up from the ends of his limbs, gathered in his groin, then burst through the tip of his spasming penis deep within Galatea's mouth. He cried out in ecstasy such as he had never known before, clutching her head close to his tumultuous groin.
Stop! Stop, my love, he thought, as her oral ministrations became too much. Suck it gently . . . bring me down slowly from the heights . . . .
As if in accordance with his thoughts, Galatea did as Emet wished, massaging his cock with slow, soothing caresses of her tongue, allowing him to soften in her mouth. Only when the sculptor sighed in gratefulness did he pull back, drawing his spent manhood from between the living statue's lips. He cupped her face in his hands, gazing euphorically upon her angelic, perfect face. A single thick bauble of milky cream decorated her lower lip.
She gazed upon his face, once again seeking direction. The dollop of fluid upon her lip dripped to the floor below.
Emet smiled beneath glazed eyes. "Come to bed with me," he whispered.
Wordlessly, Galatea rose and followed her master to the bed in the corner.
* * * *
For the first time in more years than he cared to think about, Emet Lowe was smiling as he rode the train the following morning. He had patently ignored the shuffling homeless and shiftless dealers on the way to the station -- the prostitutes would not be about for hours yet -- as if they were little more than minor obstacles in his path. Nearly all of his thoughts were directed toward his lovely Galatea, who had awakened him that morning with her mouth and hands, bringing him swiftly to erection before impaling herself.
She had ridden him with enthusiasm, and though she made no noise, she became flushed with a wanton look which served to heighten her lover's enjoyment. Emet had briefly wondered how a construct composed of three hundred pounds of clay could be so light atop him before deciding he was happy that it was so.
The owners of the various shops and stores in the Deco District were surprised and even wary to see a smile upon Emet's face and buoyancy in his step. All they had ever known of the skinny, sunken-eyed man was dourness and angst, the hallmarks of the tortured artist. The man they now met had a brightness in his formerly pale, beady eyes and a smile upon thin lips.
"What happened with you, old man?" quipped one of the collectibles dealers he met, who then jabbed Emet in the shoulder. "Don't tell me you finally got some."
The sculptor -- who often bristled when the dealer called him "old man" since, by definition, he was still only middle-aged -- frowned. "A gentleman does not discuss the details of such things, Michael."
Michael shook his head with a grin. "Well, whoever she is, thank her for all of us."
"You can thank me by making an advance purchase of my statues," Emet responded readily. "I have a feeling I will be turning out some rather inspired pieces soon."
Michael mulled the idea over. "Tell you what. Bring me something in a few days, and if I like it, I'll take as many as you got."
Emet snapped his fingers. "Done!" he declared before whistling his way out the door.
And so it went through the remainder of the morning and into the afternoon. At another store he was greeted with news that one of his pieces had sold just that morning, which resulted in much-needed money in the sculptor's pocket. After a quick lunch from the counter at a deli, Emet made the purchase of twenty more pounds of clay, in anticipation of a productive night.
In more than one way, he chuckled mutely to himself, his thoughts and libido turning to the beautiful Galatea. But he forced clarity into his mind. There is still one last stop to make.
If he had not pushed away thoughts of carnal pleasure before, they would certainly have faded upon approaching the steps of the synagogue. It had been quite some time since last he had stepped through the heavy doors, since last he had worn the yarmulke. Even with his minimal possessions, it had taken some digging through his dresser to uncover it. Somberness fell upon him like a giant hand as he settled the little knitted cap atop his head.
A faint hint of incense greeted him at the door. Through the heavy walls, he heard faint prayers from the sanctuary. No coherent words, just the haunting mumbles of devoted men. Though guilt gave him pause for a moment, he decided not to offer his own prayers to God; after so many years, what would one prayer do now?
The hallway to the offices were less austere. Emet found what he was looking for at the third door. After setting his heavy bag on the bench seat in the hall, he faced the door. His hand hesitated before knuckles rapped against the polished wood.
"Come in," a ragged but vaguely familiar voice called.
A lump settling in his throat, Emet pushed the door open, tentatively following it in. The office beyond was simple, nearly spartan. Merely shelves lined with books and a large black desk in one corner. Seated alongside the desk so that he could face the door was a man who appeared to have aged not a day since Emet saw him last.
The younger man's words were timid. "Rabbi?"
Rabbi Rausch glanced up from the newspaper he had been reading. His expression behind thick-framed glasses was at first stoic and inscrutable as he beheld the man before him. Eventually, dry lips parted and brow furrowed. "Emet. How long has it been?"
Chastisement descended upon the sculptor as he let the door close behind him. "Probably too long."
The learned holy man sat up straight and set the paper aside. He offered a curious smile. "I am not sure whether to commend God or just chalk it up to serendipity. I was just wondering about you the other day."
Emet looked admonished. "Wondering why I haven't been back to temple, I'm sure."
Rausch shrugged. "Not so much," he said. His expression and demeanor became more grave. "Are you all right? I had heard you moved into the Devil's Block."
The sculptor nodded. "It's been a rough go of it lately," he admitted. He managed a smile. "But things are looking up."
The rabbi smiled. "Well, then, I suppose I am both sad and glad to hear of it."
"Thank you, Rabbi." He shifted on his feet, looking furtive.
The older man was quick to read Emet's anxiety. He smiled assuringly. "Why don't we take a walk?"
* * * *
It was difficult to begin his narrative, but once he did, Emet prattled on with all the bubbly effluence of a teenager in describing -- without too much detail -- the circumstances of Galatea's animation and her subsequent amorousness. Rabbi Rausch listened carefully all the while as the two men strolled through a city park near the synagogue. Finally, he directed the younger man toward a park bench and sat.
". . . I know this all sounds crazy, Rabbi, but I am speaking the truth," Emet insisted as he, too, took a seat. "I carved a statue and . . . she's alive!" He hung his head, smiling wistfully, leaning forward with elbows on his knees. "She's the perfect woman."
Rabbi Rausch pursed his aged lips, the wrinkles around his eyes darkening. "Perfect, you say."
"Yes. Perfect."
"Because she does as you command?"
"Because . . . because she knows what I want, before I even know what I want!"
"On the contrary," informed the rabbi. "She is merely feeding off your desires. The more base, the easier it is for your construct to respond. You must take care, for she will act in accordance with the simplest of your urges."
Emet grinned rakishly. "I don't mind it so far."
"Then you have not thought about it," chided the rabbi. "Consider the possibilities: lust is one of the most powerful basic instincts a man possesses. But so is pride. And anger." He spoke the last two words while looking the younger man directly in the eye.
Emet swallowed thickly, agreeing slowly with the learned man. "I need to be careful, then, how I express myself around her."
"More than that. You must guard against feelings such as hate."
A dark look of realization crossed Emet's face. "Truthfully, I expected you to tell me I'm crazy," he said with a nervous laugh. "But you talk like this is nothing new."
"It isn't," the rabbi answered simply. "Do you know the legend of the Golem?"
A deep furrow between Emet's eyes was his only response.
Rabbi Rausch rolled his eyes with a huff. "You never did follow up on your studies," he lamented, then cleared his throat. "When your mother first presented you to me, I wondered as to why she chose the name she gave you. It seemed, at the time, an appropriate name, especially considering the particular spelling. The circumstances of your conception, after all--"
Emet ground his teeth. "I know all about that," he said quickly. "Mother told me just before she died."
Rausch nodded. "I cannot imagine it would be an easy thing to accept that you were the product of a violent rape. I offer my sympathies for that. I only bring up the subject to offer context."
"What kind of context?"
Rausch met Emet's eyes directly. "Do you know what your name means?"
The sculptor frowned in confusion. "Well . . . no."
"You see, the name 'Emmet,' with two Ms, means 'universal.' But your name is spelled E-M-E-T." He glanced to the younger man to insure his attention. "The word 'Emet' means truth, or life, in Hebrew. I always assumed your mother wanted that name for you, with that spelling, in order to erase the horror of how you came to be."
Emet's face darkened. "You certainly know how to brighten a man's day," he remarked with sarcasm. "But what does my name have to do with this Golem?"
"In light of what you have told me, everything," the rabbi said. "You see, in the seventeenth century, a rabbi in Prague constructed a massive statue of clay in order to protect the Jews in that city from the mayor's soldiers. That statue was a golem. It could not be stopped or killed, and followed the wishes of its creator. In the end, the mayor of Prague gave in to the rabbi's demands and spared the Jews. The golem was sealed inside an attic, where it supposedly remains to this day."
Emet blinked, waiting.
Rabbi Rausch continued. "In order to animate the golem, the rabbi needed to inscribe a particular word onto his creation. The word was 'Emet.'"
The sculptor suddenly nodded in understanding, his memory flashing back in less than a heartbeat to his act of carving his full first name upon the foot of the statue. "And I did the same with Galatea. Every artist signs his work."
"I suspected as much. The moment you did, somehow, your statue became animated. But do not think that is the same as coming to life."
Emet looked uncomfortable. The strange coincidences of his life had led to the creation of a potential monster. He did not want to admit that.
"Emet?"
The slender sculptor nodded his head only once. "I'm listening."
Rabbi Rausch inhaled deeply, then let it out as a long, contemplative sigh. "I would like to see this creation of yours."
Again, Emet nodded, then rose wordlessly from the park bench. He did not look to see if the rabbi followed him; he knew the older man would.
* * * *
Apprehensive hands fidgeted with the lock to Emet's home. With the presence of the rabbi behind him, he felt to be under scrutiny. He was not entirely sure what awaited beyond the door. A small part of him wondered if the bliss he had shared with Galatea had all been a dream.
Finally, he slipped the correct key into the slot beneath the weathered brass doorknob and disengaged the lock. Carefully, he peered within before Rabbi Rausch could see anything.
Galatea sat like the statue she was upon the cinder-block pedestal in the middle of the room. Her skin glowed with ghostly pale radiance. Her eyes remained blank, and her hair matched the color of her milky skin. She was apparently immobile and unaware of her surroundings, until Emet stepped into the room, the rabbi following.
Pale clay turned a slightly more fleshy tone and the eyes came alive with color. Her hair splayed away from the round, angelic face as Galatea turned to look upon her master. She smiled warmly, glittering eyes catching the pale light of day flooding into the room. Only briefly did she glance to the aged man behind Emet, whose presence, apparently, bothered her not a whit. There was no modesty within her as she rose in her unabashed nudity.
"There," said Emet proudly. "My Galatea."
Rabbi Rausch cleared his throat. "You, eh, certainly took a lot of care in your, eh, rendering of her," he commented, looking over the woman's exquisite form.
"She is, without a doubt, my best work."
Galatea smiled demurely, eyes boring into Emet's while she awaited his commands.
The rabbi stepped around, gingerly approaching the animated statue. "Would you mind?" he asked carefully with a glance to the sculptor.
"Of course, rabbi," Emet said. "She is perfectly docile."
Indeed, as the Rabbi approached, Galatea stood straight, arms at her sides and breasts thrust out as if encouraging the elderly man's advance. The rabbi blushed, having trouble believing that this delectable woman before him was nothing more than a clay statue animated by a combination of ancient Hebrew mysticism and distorted luck.
His hands settled to her shoulders; they felt firm and warm, like any real woman's. His touch traveled down her arms, gently pulling them out so he could see the palms of the woman's hands. As he deduced, they were as smooth as the rest of her skin. Nor did she possess fingerprints.
He glanced back to Emet with a meaningful look. "You must trust me, Emet. What I am about to do may seem painful at first glance. But, if Galatea is what you say she is, it will not affect her."
Hesitantly, Emet nodded, then watched as the Rabbi reached for a long metal awl on the sculptor's stand. Holding the fingers of Galatea's right hand, he settled the point of the awl in the middle of her palm and pushed.
Emet winced at first, but a quick look to Galatea told him she was completely unperturbed by the rabbi's actions. Rausch pushed with as much strength as he could muster, causing a spike of clay-like skin to form on the back of Galatea's hand. There was no blood, no seepage of any kind other than a few drops of clear moisture around both the point of insertion and when the awl finally broke through the other side.
Rausch let go of the awl and turned Galatea's hand over. The skin retracted slowly back along the length of the slim metal tool. He shook his head in amused disbelief. "Truly amazing," he muttered.
"It is as I said," Emet gushed, smiling broadly. "Why, this can only be a miracle sent by God himself!"
The rabbi raised a cautionary finger. "Be careful of your words, Emet," he warned. "There are miracles, and then there are things unexplained."
"But, rabbi--"
Rausch silenced the sculptor's protest with a short hissing sound. "You must keep her hidden. Do not tell anyone about her. In fact, if you are adamant about keeping her, I would suggest you locate a more secluded place to live. This neighborhood has many wandering ears and eyes."
Emet frowned. "I am a poor artist," he bemoaned. "It's good that Galatea doesn't eat, because I could not even afford to buy more food! And you want me to move?"
The rabbi's look was direct and honest. "I said nothing of feasibility," he said, then softened. "But this place is not the best for keeping such a creature. You must be very careful about not allowing her existence to be known to the world."
Begrudgingly, Emet nodded, then smiled rakishly. "So I have to keep her locked up, and all to myself, then. At least until I can afford better accommodations."
Rausch rolled his eyes, but he nodded with a chuckle. "Just be careful, Emet."
The sculptor offered his hand. "I will, rabbi. Thank you."
* * * *
As soon as the door closed, Emet heard Galatea moving behind him. There came the clattering of metal as the awl fell to the floor, and the sculptor turned, watching as Galatea approached the bed. Obviously responding to the sudden spike in her creator's libido, she crawled onto the dirty mattress, settling on her knees with her thighs spread widely apart. She bent over, stretching her arms toward the pillows at the head of the bed.
Trembling desire overcame the sculptor. He hastily removed his coat, then shirt, shuffling toward the deliciously -- and lewdly -- displayed backside of his mystical lover. His pants fell around his ankles, revealing a stiff and ready cock. Hands caressed the firm round rump of his personal goddess. His eyes settled on the forbidden treasure of her anus, which was as pale as the rest of her skin with just the slightest hint of pink at the wrinkled aperture. Emet was certain the fact that Galatea had positioned herself at just the right height was no coincidence.
He trembled in bliss at just the barest contact of the tip of his erection against the puckered, pursed opening. "Is this what you want, my dearest?" he asked her. "Do you want me . . . in there?"
Golden hair bobbed about her head as Galatea nodded.
Emet found his throat dry, head light. The devilish kink of anal sex had always intrigued him, had always been an unsatisfied fantasy. Now, on the verge of making that fantasy real, he was nearly at the point of ejaculation already. With effort, he managed to control himself, taking his cock in hand and pushing the head against Galatea's nether orifice. He was surprised to find her damp there. His creation, it seemed, had the ability to make any part of her moist and accommodating.
He watched the pale opening spread slowly around his cock, revealing deeper and deeper shades of pink as the head popped inside. Emet groaned, gripping his lover's hips. Galatea pushed up on her hands and arched her back more deeply than even the most willing whore. The snug, gripping tunnel of her anus pulled his length in, sucking like a mouth, burning like a furnace. Inch by inch, the whole of Emet's phallus was consumed.
For a long moment, he simply leaned against her, relishing the incomparable sensations. His cock throbbed almost painfully, but exquisitely so, massaged along the full length by muscular movements no mortal woman could possess. He caressed her taut cheeks, the furrow of her spine.
Galatea looked over her should at him. Her face was flushed, sweaty, eyes blazing with an expression of pure lust. Lips pouted and trembled. Full breasts heaved. To further eroticise the moment, she took one of her hands from the bed and cupped a perfectly round, firm teat, pinching the engorged nipple.
Emet moaned, reaching for a handful of his lover's luxurious hair. It felt like silk as he gathered a fistful and jerked back. Galatea reacted as if grunting in painful pleasure, but of course, no sound issued forth. That little fact did not matter to Emet. The expression was enough. It showed her submission to him, his dominance over her. Pulling back until just the head of his heated cock was nestled within her ass, he shoved home to the hilt. Galatea bucked and writhed, shaking as he pounded into her again and again.
The cool, quiet air was filled the sounds of wet skin slapping together, Emet's groans and grunts, the protests of mattress springs. Emet alternately watched his creation's sweaty face -- at one point, a tear trickled from her right eye -- and the bacchanalian sight of his penis sliding in and out of that most taboo of a woman's openings. He was not sure which excited him the most.
He nearly screamed the arrival of his orgasm, pleasurably sending liquid fire into the body of his lover, creation, and conquest. He shuddered against Galatea, slapping both hands to her quivering buttocks to keep from falling atop her body. He felt every trickle of seed leave his cock as Galatea milked him of every drop.
Drained, dulled, and satisfied, Emet swayed on his feet, eyes closed and sweat dripping from his nose. "That was incredible, Galatea," he muttered. "You truly are . . . my perfect woman."
Galatea eased forward on the bed, letting her master collapse atop her. As always, she said nothing. The flush drained from her face and the "sweat" dried. As Emet slid off her to the mattress on his side, she stared blankly at the wall for only a few seconds before closing her eyes.
* * * *
The following several days saw a rejuvenated Emet obsessively at work, crafting figure after figure. His imagination sparked by the carnal experiences provided via his lover, he indulged in the motifs of Greek and Roman myth. Lustful satyrs, coy nymphs, and erection-sporting conquerers became his new theme. He found his hands and tools flying effortlessly about the mounds of clay, creating artful and intricate renditions born from his own base and lustful mind.
And whenever he was ready and randy, Galatea was available to him without him having to speak a word. Whatever his debauched desire, she acted out her part without hesitation or judgment. Emet allowed himself the fantasy of reading into the golem's sweaty and impassioned face a true desire for whatever it was she did for him. Ultimately, he knew none of it mattered; she was simply a creation, after all, with no more feeling than the tools he had used to create her. Still, a part of him wanted to ascribe to her at least some humanity, even if only to lend satisfaction to his acts of dominance.
Five days after Rabbi Rausch's visit, Emet oversaw the loading of three boxes of hardened clay figurines onto the back of a truck. Michael the art dealer had consented to accept twenty-three statues -- the number surprised the younger man -- in good faith, with the agreement that, if he did not like them, he would have his driver return them without charge to Emet's apartment.
Oh, he will take them, Emet thought assuredly as the hefty driver carefully arranged the boxes in the back of his truck. Emet had not allowed the man to enter his rooms; he had set the boxes just outside the door, which remained shut so as not to afford any accidental glimpses of Galatea.
Taking a moment, Emet opened the door to his basement apartment, peering inside. Galatea turned to look at him from her usual perch upon the cinder column. He smiled fondly. "I will return later, my lovely," he said as if to reassure her.
She nodded.
"And, do not go near the windows," he continued. "No one can know you are here. Do you understand?"
Again, she nodded.
Satisfied, Emet closed the door and locked it, then ascended the steps to join the driver in his idling truck.
He did not notice the curtain in Mrs. Rudolf's front window, the one which oversaw the stairwell down to his rooms, as it settled back into place.
* * * *
Who was he talking to? Mrs. Rudolf wondered as she stepped back from the window. Suspicion burned through her mind. That little weasel of a man better not have anyone staying with him.
She sipped her coffee in contemplation, maneuvering the bulk of her body around the cluttered living room.
He's been acting strange lately. When he came to pay his rent, he was actually smiling. Only two things make a man smile. Money and pussy.
She soured. He clearly is not making money, otherwise he wouldn't be here. Which means . . . .
A distasteful look crossed her face. He must be keeping one of those trashy, disease-ridden whores from down the street, she decided. And I can't have that. Not in my house!
"Carl! Jeffrey!" she shouted in her shrill tone.
Within moments, a pair of large, dim-witted men assembled in the living room, one from the kitchen, the other from one of the rooms upstairs. She gave them a sneering look while taking a ring of keys from within her voluminous house dress.
"Go down to Mr. Lowe's apartment in the basement," she ordered. "See if there is someone staying with him."
"Yes ma'am!" answered Carl, the larger of the two.
"What we 'sposed to do if there is?" asked Jeffrey.
Mrs. Rudolf grinned evilly. "Send her back to the street and deposit all of Mr. Lowe's things onto the sidewalk. He has breached his rental agreement."
The two men nodded and grinned. Carl took the key Mrs. Rudolf held out.
"I have some errands to run," she announced. "I should be back in a few hours. I trust this matter will be cleared up by then."
"You bet, Mrs. Rudolf."
* * * *
Michael regarded the boxes of small sculptures with impressed eyes. He had always known Emet for creating rather typical depictions of woodland animals and other such fare. Well-rendered and with acute attention to detail, but not exactly eye-catching. What he saw now, however, went against the grain the middle-aged sculptor normally offered.
"Emet, old man," he finally said, reaching into a box to take up a detailed statuette of a nubile, naked woman astride a unicorn with an obvious erection. "I am impressed."
The sculptor grinned with pride. "As I said, I have been inspired."
Michael chuckled, replacing the diminutive statue and picking up another. "She must be one hell of a woman," he remarked, brow furrowed as he looked the detailed carving over. It showed a muscular satyr, standing with goat legs splayed wide. Two massive, detailed erections jutted out from the creature's groin, pointed toward a pair of crouching, naked fairies with their mouths open and tongues outstretched, as if about to catch the streams of the satyr's orgasm.
"She is unique," Emet responded. "So . . .?"
"Well, I'll be honest," Michael said. "I get a lot of customers looking for erotic pieces like this. Seems to be all the rage now."
Emet grinned. "These boxes constitute only a small sample," he said. "In fact, given the proper advance, I could purchase enough clay to make three times as many pieces as this."
Michael arched an eyebrow in interest. "Oh, really?"
The sculptor met the art dealer's eye. "Yes. Really."
The younger man contemplated the implied offer for a moment, then nodded. "I'll tell you what," he finally said. "Five hundred as an advance against sales. I'll put them right in the front window and price them from fifty to seventy bucks to start. If they sell quickly, I'll raise the price and settle at fifty percent."
Emet was quick to counter. "Twenty-five percent," he said. "The rest to me."
Michael narrowed his eyes. "Thirty-three," he counter-offered. "The rest to you."
Emet smiled and held out his hand. "My advance, if you please. Oh, and I will need the services of your driver for all the clay I'll need to take back to my apartment."
* * * *
As with the morning, Emet did not allow Michael's driver to enter his apartment. He had the burly man deposit four hundred dollars' worth of malleable clay in several boxes upon his basement doorstep, then sent the man on his way. As the truck rumbled away, the old, dented Cadillac belonging to his landlady sidled up along the curb. Emet gave her a disparaging look.
"Afternoon, Mrs. Rudolf," he said without disguising his contempt.
Her eyes searched the sidewalk, as if looking for something. She seemed displeased that she did not see what she had expected. "Mr. Lowe," she responded after emitting a small belch. Paper bags and fast food wrappers littered the front passenger seat. She wiped her slovenly mouth. "Is everything in order with your rooms? I like to make sure my tenants are well cared for."
"Oh, I'm sure everything is fine," he said. "I only just now returned home, but I am sure my apartment is unmolested."
She smiled mirthlessly. "Then all is well, Mr. Lowe. Good day."
"Good day." He watched as Mrs. Rudolf put the aging Cadillac in gear and pulled away from the curb, then as she drove around the corner to the rear parking lot. His dislike for the woman had grown with that simple exchange. Feeling a spike of anxiety stab through his heart, he turned to the steps and descended to his door.
* * * *
The sight which greeted him made Emet stumble in the doorway, gripping the handle of the door for support. His mouth gaped; eyes bulged. Even with the pale light which seemed to transform every color into lifeless shades of grey, the streaks, spatters, and puddles of congealed blood all but glowed with unnatural radiance.
Two large, muscular young men lay upon the floor, their bodies crushed and twisted at obscene angles. The closest one lay with his chest to the floor but his head turned all the way around. One arm was canted upward, broken in several places, the limp hand hanging down toward the middle of the back. The other corpse stared upward with an expression of perpetual pain. Both had apparently been bludgeoned to death.
"Oh, no," bemoaned Emet, looking upon the surreal scene of carnage. "What happened? Galatea? Galatea! Where are you?"
She emerged from the darkest corner of the room, beautiful sublime body decorated with blood. Both of her arms were streaked with drying crimson ichor, with more spots and lines upon firm, naked breasts. Her face remained innocent, unperturbed, as if heedless to the violence that had been committed.
"G-Galatea?"
She nodded slowly, and smiled, raising her blood-stained hands in welcome.
Quickly, Emet shut the door behind him. The spike of anxiety from moments before became a pounding wave against his chest. "Wh-what did you do?"
His creation lowered her arms and glanced to the bodies upon the floor. Her brow furrowed as she returned her gaze to Emet. It was as if she could not understand why he was acting the way he was.
I only told her to remain inside, he thought, remembering. Not to go near the windows. I told her . . . .
His face paled as he recalled his words, and the chilling directive he had inadvertently given Galatea.
No one can know you are here.
He sighed deeply, heavily. By telling her that, I opened the door to this carnage. If she was discovered by someone, how better to insure no one knew of her existence than by killing those who discovered her?
And now I have a mess to clean up. He pinched the bridge of his brow, trying to stem off a headache. Where did they come from? Thugs from the street, seeking to rob me? A dark chuckle escaped his throat and he squatted beside the second corpse. "Did you find what you were looking for?" he asked with morbid glee. But his eyes narrowed in suspicion as he looked past the dried blood on the body's face. "Wait. I know you."
Hurriedly, he dug beneath the corpse's backside, seeking the wallet. Finding it, he flipped it open -- forty dollars went into Emet's own pocket -- and extracted the driver license. "Well, hello, Carl Wilson," he said with a sneer. Upon reading the address, Emet craned his head, looking upward as if through his ceiling to the rooms above.
A cold, malicious smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.
* * * *
Emet found the fat woman as she sat before the aged television in the living room of the house. She looked up from a box of cheese crisps with an annoyed frown. "Mr. Lowe," she grumbled. "You don't often crawl out of your hole, and today I've seen you twice."
He glared back briefly, then dropped a pair of well-worn wallets onto the coffee table. "I found these outside in the garbage," he said simply. "They belong to a couple of the other tenants, I believe. You might want to be sure they get them back."
A cold hand squeezed Mrs. Rudolf's heart, but only briefly. She gave Emet a dismissive look. "Thank you, Mr. Lowe. They'll be glad to have them back."
"I only hope I don't find any others," he said as he turned back toward the door. "No one wants to be caught dead without their identification around here."
* * * *
Mrs. Rudolf finally turned off the lights just before eleven o'clock. The world news was over, and she was no fan of late-night Seinfeld reruns. Still bristling over Emet Lowe's earlier smugness, she pushed away thoughts of how such an ineffectual little man could have fended off two hulking men as Carl and Jeffrey, as well as the location of her erstwhile tenants. She simply assumed the buffoons were avoiding her due to their failure.
This isn't the end of it, she told herself firmly as she ambled up the stairs. I'll see that little weasel gets put on the street, along with whatever little tramp he's got stashed away.
The muffled -- but still loud -- bass emanating from one of the apartments just past the landing made her scowl. She went to the door and hammered a fleshy fist against it. "Hey! No loud music after ten o'clock!" she yelled. "Or whatever you call that shit you're playing!"
Fucking losers, she thought to herself, smirking as the noise behind her abated. Most of her tenants, she knew, could not afford a late-night visit from the police for a noise disturbance.
Past the four rented rooms on the third floor, Mrs. Rudolf arrived at her own door. The exertion from climbing two flights of stairs was telling; her face was swollen and red, and sweat trickled down her neck from her temples. She recalled the days before the late Mr. Rudolf passed, when she rarely had need to leave the "penthouse" on the top floor. Curse the old bastard for dying on me, she mused darkly.
The room beyond was cluttered with stacks of newspapers, magazines, and other recyclables Mrs. Rudolf had long planned to have taken away. The odor of mildew and rotting food filled the room. The capacious woman wrinkled her nose briefly, but she was used to the smell. Ignoring the clutter, she headed for the kitchenette, looking for a last snack before bed. A half-full jar of pickles would do the trick, she decided.
Turning back toward the living area, she gave a startled gasp, inadvertently letting the jar slip from her grasp.
"Good evening, Mrs. Rudolf."
She glared, eyes blazing wildly. "Mr. Lowe! How dare you! I'll call the police!"
The gaunt man shook his head with a dark chuckle. "Oh, you know how long it takes them to respond around here, Mrs. Rudolf. Better to call the Salvation Army."
"These are my rooms," she hissed, spittle dripping from her lower lip. "You have no business here."
"Oh, I think I do," he responded casually. "Galatea, my darling, give the old hen back her pickles."
Mrs. Rudolf frowned, then looked to her left, where stood an unabashedly naked young woman with the most unearthly golden hair and glittering eyes she had ever witnessed. A disgusted expression twisted the fat landlady's face as she snatched the jar from pale, offering hands. "Have you no shame? Is this what the world has come to? Naked whores running around carelessly?"
Emet shook his head with a wan smile. "Oh, my dear creation is nothing like those pathetic whores who part their thighs for the chemistry gods. She is so much more than that."
"Well, I really don't care, Mr. Lowe," she bristled, even as she remembered their earlier meeting, and the implication that this slight, frail-looking man had somehow chased off her buffoons. She made an effort to be amiable, despite the context. "I would ask you to leave."
"In due time," Emet said, then gave a short nod to the silent Galatea. Without the slightest flicker of emotion, the alabaster-skinned woman raised a large butcher knife, taken from Mrs. Rudolf's own cupboard, and advanced.
The corpulent woman blanched visibly, eyes widening in fear at the sight of the knife. "Wh-what are you doing?"
"Have you ever heard of the term 'just deserts,' by any chance?"
Mrs. Rudolf backpedaled into the kitchen, raking a fleshy hip against the counter. She fell against the refrigerator, fear blatant in her eyes as the naked inhuman woman approached. "I'll give you whatever you want! Please! Tell her to stop!"
"But why would I want to do that? I can't stop now; you know too much."
"I won't say anything! I swear!" Even as she screeched out those words, Mrs. Rudolf raised her arms to protect herself, palms turned outward so the hands would shield her face. This, of course, left the insides of her forearms fully exposed.
She heard more than felt the quick slashes of the blade, metal singing wetly in the air. She cried out once, anticipating a death stroke, but it did not come.
With slow trepidation, Mrs. Rudolf lowered her arms, focusing past her own curled fingers to a sight which both sickened and unnerved her. Emet stood behind his voluptuous companion, chin upon her shoulder beside the ghostly, blank face. His hands had come up from behind to grope and knead heavy, fleshy breasts. His face grinned maniacally.
"Isn't she wonderful? So beautiful, so obedient, so . . . deadly."
Brow wrinkling with confusion, Mrs. Rudolf became aware of the sensation of liquid warmth running down the inside of her arms. Dreading what she might find, the loathsome woman turned her arms and looked upon the long, leaking gouges which ran from wrists nearly to her elbows. Bloody flaps of flesh lay wide open, allowing the torrent of blood to spill freely to the floor.
"Oh, sweet Jesus in Heaven," she muttered, feeling her vision blur as light-headedness set in. She could barely focus upon the two figures before her as Emet Lowe bent the naked woman over before him, thrusting his hips firmly against her backside.
The degenerate, perverse vision of two lovers fucking while she died was the last thing Mrs. Rudolf would ever see.
* * * *
"Emet!" exclaimed Michael as the lanky sculptor stepped through his doors. "How's my favorite artist?"
Emet smirked arrogantly, meeting the younger man with outstretched hand. "Oh, I'm your favorite, now?"
Michael chuckled. "Well, sure! I've sold all your pieces. Even had people coming back all week asking when I'm going to have more."
The sculptor grinned. "Then you will be glad to accept the thirty new pieces I've completed."
"Thirty?"
Emet nodded. "Your driver should be bringing them in shortly."
Michael shook his head with a grateful smile and clasped Emet's bony shoulder. "I don't know how you did it, but you did. Just the other day, I showed some of your pieces to a couple of appraisers. They really liked what they saw, Emet."
"This is only the beginning. I have even more impressive works in the making."
"Can't wait to see them," Michael said honestly. His eyes softened. "Sorry to hear about that mess last week with your landlady."
Emet shrugged. "She was obviously not well."
The shop owner shook his head ruefully. "Dangerous place you live in, old man. Your landlady goes crazy, beats a couple of her tenants to death before slitting her wrists . . . you ever think she might have killed you, too?"
The sculptor smiled. "Not really, no."
* * * *
While the sun, as always, did not shine upon the Devil's Block, Emet could almost feel its warming glow as he left the train station and stepped lively along the street toward his home. The majority of his day had been spent glad-handing with the various shop and gallery owners who sold his wares. They had all agreed to the same deal he enjoyed with Michael, resulting in a flattering return for the struggling artist.
In a mere week, he had earned more than enough money to pay his rent, all other bills, and put some aside. It had been years since Emet had enjoyed a financial surplus. He looked forward to finding a better place to live, a better life, one which he would happily spend with his perfect woman, Galatea.
Head held high as he strutted through the filthy streets, Emet had no other thought in his mind than to return to his humble apartment and spend the evening indulging in all manner of carnal delights with his compliant lover. He flatly ignored the looks from dealers, pimps and prostitutes, until a lone voice called out to him.
"Well, if it ain't Emet Lowe!"
He stopped, eyes searching, finding the busty redhead as she strolled from her usual corner. Crimson lips glowed against pale skin as she smacked her gum. The bemused gleam upon her face sent uncomfortable chills down the sculptor's spine.
"Oh. You again. I thought perhaps you had died," Emet said snidely.
"Now ain't that a terrible thing to say," she chided him, stopping a few paces away with hands on her hips. "'Course, I was thinking the same about you. You ain't been coming and going like you always did. I was starting to miss my Emsie-Wemsie."
He scoffed derisively. "If you have to know, I've become quite popular for my sculptures. I dare say it won't be long before I crawl my way out of this disgusting pit." He smiled arrogantly. "But don't worry. When we leave this world behind, we'll be sure to give you a wave good-bye."
Dierdre's eyes narrowed. Her jaw stopped working. "'We?'"
He chuckled. "Did I say that? It must have slipped out."
The busty prostitute looked put out. "You shacking up with someone, Emet?"
He tilted his head to the sky as he laughed, then snapped it back down again before addressing the streetwalker. "In a way, yes," he admitted. "But she is nothing like you, rest assured. I would not waste my time with anything so cheap and tawdry."
Color rose in Dierdre's cheeks. "You always talking down about us, Emet," she snipped. "Like you think you're better. Well, you ain't, okay? Not much difference between you and me, you know, 'cept I got something other people want."
He glared. "As do I," he growled, then sneered. "And I don't have to get on my back to be paid."
"Oh, yeah?" she challenged, cocking her head haughtily. "What you got that's so damn good it pays better than me?"
The sculptor's bravado faltered. He looked away. "For you to understand art would be like a pig understanding the rich flavor of Beef Wellington."
The self-assured prostitute did not skip a beat. "So show me the beef, Emet. Unless you're afraid."
Heat rose to the lanky man's cheeks. He glared once more upon the prostitute. "Do you really wish to know?"
She smacked her gum and winked. "Show me."
* * * *
In the several days since Mrs. Rudolf's "suicide," the apartment building had been placed in a sort of escrow limbo. The tenants were allowed to remain, rent-free, until a new property owner took the place over. Everyone, it seemed, had accepted the idea that somehow, Mrs. Rudolf had bludgeoned to death two of her tenants -- the popular rumor was that the burly men had raped her, and she had taken revenge upon them -- then, feeling remorse for her actions, slit her wrists. The police were doing little to actively investigate such a happening in an area of town well-known for crimes of passion and depression, many of which remained unsolved.
"Is this all some trick to get me to drop my skirts, Emet?" Dierdre asked suspiciously while the sculptor unlocked the door. "'Cause, if that's all it is, and you really wanna just bed me, why not come out and say it? Ain't nobody around now."
He pushed the door open into the shadowed environs of his home and cast a sneering look over his shoulder. "If I haven't made my contempt for you clear before, let me just say this: in a matter of moments, you will see why I despise such pathetic vermin as yourself. And once you have seen, you will be sent on your way with skirts fully intact, I assure you."
The prostitute's eyes clouded. "Fine. Let's get it over with, Emet. I've half a mind to charge you for the time. I could be getting paid right now."
His lip curled in disdain. "You are right about one thing. You do have half a mind."
He stepped in and flipped the switch, sending pale yellow light across the room from the standing lamp by the door. The inert statue of Galatea sat as always upon her simple cinder throne, eyes as pale and blank as the rest of her body. A veritable army of smaller figurines stood alongside the wall near the doorway, awaiting their march to the outside world.
Dierdre's eyes fell upon the lifelike, life-sized statue. An expression of wonder and awe decorated her pale features. "You did this?"
Emet frowned at his guest's reaction. He had expected the same sort of revulsion Mrs. Rudolf had shown, or at least a laughing condemnation. But the simple streetwalker appeared fully impressed with the results of Emet's skill. The redhead went so far as to approach, even touch the statue upon one sublimely-rendered thigh.
"Why . . . yes, I did. She took me weeks to complete."
Dierdre smiled. "She's beautiful," she remarked, then turned a smiling face toward the sculptor. "What do you call her?"
He blinked, somewhat perturbed that this pitiful prostitute could show any interest in art whatsoever. "Eh, G-Galatea," he stammered.
Dierdre's smile broadened. "Like the story," she remarked. "Pygmalion created the most beautiful woman in the world, and he named her Galatea. His love for her was so powerful that the Goddess of Love gave her life."
Emet stared upon the woman before him, dumbfounded that she would know anything about art, history, or culture. "You . . . you have studied?" he asked, incredulous.
She smacked her gum and winked. "I ain't always been like I am now," she explained. "Used to go to school, you know. But, life gets hard some times. Not like anyone's immune to stepping in shit, right? Not even you."
A feeling of admonishment coursed through Emet. He found himself unable to meet the prostitute's eyes. "Apparently not."
"So, this is the big secret, huh? What, you gonna sell it off and make a fortune, is that it?"
He frowned. "I could never sell my Galatea."
She looked haughtily upon him. "Women are sold all the time," she declared.
"It's not . . . she is more than a mere statue. She--"
Dierdre tittered. "Oh, I can see that," she said, sidling up beside the stony facade of Emet's creation. "Don't think I ain't noticed certain similarities."
He frowned in confusion. "What?"
She cocked her head with a chastising look. "Oh, don't play that game, Emet," she chided. "Look at her, look at me. We got the same white skin, the same lips, the same cheeks . . . hell, ten years ago, I had pretty much the exact same tits! What color is her hair, Emet? Red, like mine? Are her eyes blue, too?"
Emet stared, suddenly seeing the similarities. He ground his teeth. "No, she's not the same as you," he growled. "She is not cheap! She is devoted! To me!"
Dierdre looked amused as she licked her lush lips. She stood between Emet and Galatea, not noticing as a faint touch of color rose to the surface of the statue. "Like you wish I'd be? Huh?"
Emet shot to his feet. "No!" he cried. "Not like you, with the stain of the sweat of a thousand men upon you! My Galatea is pure! She has known only me, and will know no other!"
The redhead stiffened before the sculptor's vocal barrage. It was only then, after the echoes of his words had faded, that she detected the movement behind her. Spinning about, she stared with both wonder and fear upon the emotionless nude woman who now stood over her.
"Dear God," Dierdre whispered, before being caught up in the swiftly-sweeping arms of the impossibly animated statue. She was lifted off her feet, held aloft by a creation which should not have been given any kind of life, yet it was. Hysterically, she called out: "Emet!"
"Galatea!" he cried.
But his creation seemed to ignore him. Pale, strong hands spread across Dierdre's back, then pressed.
And pushed.
Crack.
Snap.
Crack.
Snap.
With each jolting crush of her spine, Dierdre convulsed, limbs kicking and flailing impotently. She made little noise beyond gasps and grunts, her face showing the paralytic effect of shock.
Finally, Galatea released her victim. Dierdre fell upon her back on the floor, body limp and twisted. She convulsed only slightly, blood bubbling to her lips. Her head turned toward Emet as he crouched beside the dying prostitute. Wide, shocked eyes conveyed pain in a way words never could.
The sculptor found his own eyes dripping with tears. His heart pained as if squeezed by the hand of Death. He glared up at his creation. "How could you do this?" he shrieked. "I did not want to kill her!"
Galatea's only response was a blank stare. And a step.
Ssssmack.
Emet stiffened. "Keep your distance," he warned. He reached to the table near him, taking up the awl. "I command you."
Ssssmack. Galatea's eyes were like lifeless gemstones as she moved closer, weight balanced upon her right foot.
Fear blossomed in Emet's eyes. "You do as I wish! You are my creation!"
Still the golem advanced, lifting the left foot, then settling it upon the ground inches from where Emet crouched. The stark, emotionless expression upon Galatea's face became suddenly threatening.
"Do not make me do this!"
The right foot raised. She loomed over him, now, reaching.
"No!" he yelled, then stabbed down into Galatea's left foot, destroying the first 'E' in the inscription beneath her ankle.
Galatea froze instantly, the nearly flesh-like tinge of her skin vanishing as quickly as did the color of her eyes. Golden hair became as the clay from which it had been rendered, settling against her lifeless face. Still, the statue moved forward, bidden by the basic force of gravity. No longer alive, it nevertheless fell upon the form of its creator.
Emet fell back against the hard floor, pinned beneath the enormous weight of his creation. He felt the piercing of shattered bones within his body, puncturing lungs and other organs. Blood bubbled up through his throat and spilled from pale, thin lips.
His last act was to reach up and caress the cold, stony cheek of his lover.
* * * *
Rabbi Rausch stepped away from the "meat wagon" ambulance after offering a final prayer to the corpse beneath the glossy black bag. As the van ambled away, the aged cleric approached a disturbed man clad in an overcoat who stared down the dank stairwell toward the basement apartment.
"Detective Marks," Rausch said as he settled a hand to the younger man's shoulder. "Are you all right?"
The detective shook his head slowly. "Nothing's right about any of this," he said philosophically. "Last week, the landlady beats a couple of men to death, then kills herself. Then, tonight, a man kills a hooker before his own statue falls on top of him. It's all so . . . strange."
The rabbi nodded. "Strange things happen."
Marks scoffed. "Yeah, easy for you to say. But I don't have the luxury of answering to faith. I have to provide evidence. Only thing is --" He sighed in fristration. "-- there's not a whole lot of that here, either."
"Man cannot find every answer," Rausch said.
"Well, we gotta look, rabbi," Marks answered, then grunted in resignation. "This is nuts. I don't even know how to file this case. What am I supposed to say?"
"The truth?" Rausch offered.
"Yeah? What the hell is that?"
Rabbi Rausch stared into the darkened stairwell which lead to Emet's apartment. It was like staring down into the deepest bowels of the earth, where only darkness and madness lie. "It's simple," he said at last.
"Well, then enlighten me."
The rabbi turned back from the stairwell and leveled his eyes upon the detective. "Emet Lowe created the perfect woman," he said. His eyes darkened as he finished. "And she killed him."
-finis-
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