The Fabulous Machine

    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 of its mysterious construction. So strange was this news upon hearing it, that anyone from any walk of life had potential of possibly being compelled to make a distant pilgrimage to Bane just to see it. It was a machine: a fantastic, fabulous machine.

    All residents of Bane had great respect for this machine and so, also, anyone else who had 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, the better. This however, fortunately was not the case long ago in Bane, when that 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, iron plates and beams. It stood seven times as high as a person, sitting, morbidly obese and ponderous upon its steadfast, metal foundation. It seemed to be constructed with a keen sense of redundancy, and repetitiveness; an esoteric design, designed to encumber its true nature, by the very nature of its intricacy, and repetition. At some angles, looking past a line of powerful gleaming pistons, one could peer deeply, right through the entire mechanism to the other side. Looking closely, one could spy delicately strewn hair-like strands of gold and copper fanned-out, gleaming in all directions; sometimes all running together at once, and others in various degrees shooting off by themselves, weaving into geographically estranged gearbox encasements whereby lost to dark inner framework.

    There were areas that looked as if they could swivel back and forth with ferocious, powerful accuracy. Yet 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 on a general first glance to the overall appearance of the mechanism, a pinching, maniacal grimace.

    Directly below this 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 thick beams and heavy 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 this 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 ancient-sleeping, metallic Goliath.

    There were many debates over many years, over and over, over what this strange device could be. It infected the entire community with its presence. This was quite evident in the architecture of Bane at the time, which could prove to be profoundly intricate, and somewhat absurd to any nonresident. 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 this machine had a mind and a will of its own. A master plan to which only the machine's yet silent 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, everyday 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, but merely posture and mystery for mystery's sake.

    There also sprung up around 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 were creating their own machines to somehow capture inspiration from that iron entity that ever silently grimased there in the dark, beyond the sooted windows of their metal shops.

    In the morning these machinists adorned 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 served, always sold very well since the town was in constant onslaught by foreigner-sightseers, tourist-travelers, 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 rewards brought to them by the frenzied, financial cloud, that this strange, amazing machine in Towne Centre, did so mutely 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 through the night. She called on every being that would hear. To come to Bane and examine this machine, to do the unthinkable, that had now been thought. She wanted someone to turn on this fabulous machine.
       
    At first, she was ridiculed. Some renegade residents tried to burn her house, while others just 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. Her close friends and advisors snickered behind her back and made cryptic insults as she passed. They had grown so accustomed to the sight of the machine, that it was no longer a machine to them, it was more just something that was there, and should remain as thus. This idea scared everyone a great deal. They were not ready to accept the idea that it would be operated, and 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 wrapped up around this menacing machine, and their curiosity could hold out not much 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 and dumb most of the morning; a not uncommon reaction to seeing the fabulous machine for the first time. Yet by the afternoon he stood up and directly walked closer 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. I do not know why you tightly grasp and hold frantically to certain particular things, but forget everything else. 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, 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 pale and statuesque, as he 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. At high noon he spoke for the first time in three weeks, proclaiming, "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, and see what it can do. I just want to be here, and see it move 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, self-appointed operator.

    The future at this moment was completely foreign to all experiencing it. It sparkled with an uneasy uncertainty that would never be felt or rivaled again in any of their lives.

    Yorx humbly, slowly, moved beneath the hugely-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. His knowledge of machinery had to some extent, 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 deep inside, but nothing else happened. He then pulled his second choice and flipped the switch in which he was most interested. 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 control panel a flip-up, switch-covering clicked slightly ajar. This cover had been 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 town audience. Beneath the drab, gray 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 later would 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 face 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 this beckoning button.

    At first, there was no sound, no movement, no reaction at all, save that now the entire control panel was illuminated in most beautiful hues of different colors of blinking lights. Then, from down below, practically in the ground, there arose a deep, heavy hum. This humming increased in pitch and volume, and as it did, other frequencies joined it from unseen, cast-iron organs buried within its tangles of 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, breaking 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 ring 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 rotating 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 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 posed for one, brief, glorious moment in this position, gathering its last gargantuan grasp of momentum. It then sprung this immense, tension filled mass forward and downward, snapping in an all encompassing, brutally beautiful, hammering embrace, obliterating the small, smiling, bewildered person manning its controls. So quick was this movement once unleashed, and so powerful the blow that ensued, that there was not one thing left of the lone operator, Yorx, as the machine cried and whined in a lethargic, wind-down into the posture of its original position.

    This, death, 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, deadly 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 center of Town Square, with its frozen, iron grimace. It was a machine, a fantastic, fabulous machine. A most curious and controversial contraption.