Fantastic Metropolis

Those in the Mission still tell the tale, of the day the long struggle between Lord Peter Midnight and the Goblin King finally came to an end. Or, to put it another way…

Once upon a time…

Lord Peter Midnight, everyone will remember, was among the more flamboyant, more dramatic, and certainly more glamorous sorcerers who came to prominence in the second half of the twentieth century. From his adopted home in San Francisco, where he lived in palatial splendor with a long and steady string of fashion models, actors, actresses, and musicians of every imaginable flavor, Lord Peter Midnight would venture forth into the wide world to quell menaces of a supernatural variety, and then return home to his sartorial pursuits.

The Goblin King, some may recall, first came before the public eye in the days of the Great Depression, when his first attempt at world domination was squelched by the timely intervention of the mysterious Doctor Socharis. In the years that followed, the Goblin King, every inch the perfect villain, again and again tried to turn his dominance over the supernatural into a more material domination, sending his mis, dis and malformed hordes out into the world to overcome all opposition and to establish him as uncontested ruler. Beginning with his bid to conquer the world, years later the Goblin King was content at his darkest hour to strive for dominance over the northwest corner of Utah; he failed in the attempt.

Each time the Goblin King attempted to accomplish his dread purpose he found his moves checked, and then mated, by Doctor Socharis, or William Lo, or Madame Zed, or any other practitioners or fellow travelers who had a vested interest in maintaining the status quo. It was not until the Goblin King squared off against Lord Peter Midnight, however, that he found his nemesis. All the other meddlers in his plans had been mere annoyances. In Lord Peter Midnight, the Goblin King had met his opposite number. The chemistry, to mix metaphors, was electric.

After several years of occasional struggle and intermittent strife, punctuated by frequent banter, the long enmity between the two finally came to a head one autumn night in San Francisco, in the Mission District, atop a roof overlooking crowded streets. One of the neighborhood’s interminable street festivals was in full swing, and the gentle strains of a folksy tune could be heard drifting up from below. In boxed planters along the roof’s edge were honeysuckle vines, their cloying sweetness filling the air.

“I somehow knew it would come to this,” said the Goblin King, crossing from one side of the roof to the other. The way in which he ever so slightly favored his right leg betrayed old injuries, but Lord Peter Midnight was courteous enough not to mention them.

“I don’t suppose any other outcome was possible, or at least probable,” replied Lord Peter Midnight. “These things have a habit of following certain patterns.”

The Goblin King chuckled slightly, behind his hand, and smiled. “Patterns,” he repeated, shaking his head. “My life has become dominated by patterns, these last decades. Always the same story, it seems, forever the same plot, driving inevitably towards the same conclusion. I have become the butt of an enormous joke the world is playing, I’ve come to fear - my every action and utterance already cliché.”

“Perhaps,” Lord Peter Midnight replied, thoughtfully, “but perhaps the same could be said of me. I think, in my darker moments, that my life involves nothing more than playing the Ahab to your whale, the Javert to your Valjean…”

“I would suggest,” the Goblin King interrupted, his tone arch, “that the roles were reversed.”

Conciliatorily, Lord Peter Midnight nodded slightly. “Still,” he continued, “the fact remains that my magics have rendered inoperative your army of subhuman monsters.”

“Monsters? Tsk,” the Goblin King said, clucking his tongue. “Such bigotry. I really expected better of you. But no matter. Yes, your lightshow and chants have effectively neutered my marching hordes, but I remind you that my blood covenant with the Dark Overlords has likewise prevented you from removing me from the field of play. We are, then, at a stalemate.”

“Not really,” Lord Peter Midnight countered. “It’s true that neither you nor I can really best the other, or not for long at any rate. But as your goal is the usurpation of the status quo I have, in effect, accomplished my ends simply by blocking you from succeeding. The status quo stands, the mass of humanity remains ignorant of the world of the supernatural, and subsequently they are able to live out their lives with at least the semblance of free will.”

The Goblin King scowled for a long moment. At last his expression softened, and he applauded with light claps which rode the ragged line between quietly sincere and outright patronizing.

“Bravo,” the Goblin King said. “Bravo. I was wondering when you were going to come to that conclusion. Yes, you’re right. All you have to do in order to win our repeated engagements is to ensure that I always lose, and we are too evenly matched for me ever truly to win.” He paused, his brow furrowed. “Of course, having now said that, it seems that most of the fun will be drawn from our little encounters.”

“Accepting that as a given, then,” Lord Peter Midnight asked, his expression quizzical, “why pursue these antics at all? If world domination is not to be in the cards, why pursue it at all?”

“I’ll answer that question,” said the Goblin King, “if you can answer me one in turn.”

Lord Peter Midnight nodded.

“You shall go first,” the Goblin King announced. “Question: why does it matter so very much to you that I do not rule the world, or the country, or what have you?”

“To say nothing of the northwest corner of Utah?” Lord Peter Midnight added.

“No need to be catty,” the Goblin King said.

“You’re right,” Lord Peter Midnight said, “I apologize. Why not have you as ruler, then? It’s very simple, really. We are creatures of the dark and hidden ways, you and I, and it wouldn’t do for us to come too far out into the open. Once upon a time, perhaps, but our time has waned. It may some day wax again, but until it does, can you really imagine that the people of the world would suffer one of us to be their ruler? No. They would find some weakness, some minor Achilles heel, and use it to destroy us.”

“Well said,” the Goblin King replied. “I particularly liked the part about the ‘dark and hidden ways.’ You always were quite the orator. I don’t agree, of course, but I can appreciate the sentiment.” He paused, and smiled.

“And now?” Lord Peter Midnight said. “I believe you owe me an answer in return?”

“Ah yes,” the Goblin King said, “so I do. Why, you ask, do I pursue conquest, when in actual fact I accomplish little more than an endless repetition of our little tête-à-tête’s?”

“Precisely,” Lord Peter Midnight said.

“Because, my dear fellow,” the Goblin King said, “it has become the tête-à-tête which is the end in itself. Put simply, I find I enjoy being with you, and this is the best way I’ve found to do so.”

Lord Peter Midnight was silent for a time. Finally he nodded, slowly.

“I can’t say I disagree,” he said. “I hadn’t really admitted it, even to myself, but I suppose that the encounters themselves have taken on a greater significance than anything else I’d hoped to accomplish.”

“We are not,” the Goblin King said, “so much unalike.”

“Not,” Lord Peter Midnight agreed, “so unalike at all.”

Lord Peter Midnight and the Goblin King regarded each other for a long moment, waiting to see who would speak first.

“Well,” Lord Peter Midnight said, clearing his throat, “my apartment is not far from here, and it seems like we’ve done all we can up here this evening.”

“I quite agree,” the Goblin King said. “We’ve well established that I won’t be taking over the world, not tonight at any rate, and that there’s really nothing further to be said on the matter, pro or con.” He grinned, slyly, and added, “Besides, I’ve always wanted to know what your sanctum sanctorum looked like.”

Lord Peter Midnight and the Goblin King climbed down from the roof to the busy streets, and arm in arm made their way to Lord Peter Midnight’s apartment which was, thankfully, vacant of fashion model, actor, actress or musician on this particular evening. They spent the hours before dawn in one another’s company, and when the morning came the Goblin King went on his way. He was not seen in San Francisco again for many years, and never again would he face off against Lord Peter Midnight.

When Lord Peter Midnight reportedly perished in a particularly brutal fashion a short time later, a memorial was erected in a quiet corner of a private cemetery in San Francisco. Rumor has it that every year, on the occasion of a particular street festival in the Mission District, a secretive figure deposits a handful of honeysuckle roses at the base of the memorial statue, and then quietly disappears into the night.

The current whereabouts of the Goblin King are not known.

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Chris Roberson is the author of Voices of Thunder, Cybermancy Incorporated, and Set the Seas on Fire, all from Clockwork Storybook, an independent publisher. This story has appeared in a slightly different form in The Clockwork Reader, an anthology/catalogue from Clockwork Storybook.