The Magnus Archives - MAG 172 - Strung Out

Episode Date: June 18, 2020

Case ########-12The Tragedy of Francis, a comic puppet show in all acts. Recorded by The Archivist, in Situ. Content warnings:- Emotional manipulation & abuse (including familial)- Body horror & wounding- Supernatural manipulation- Explicit language- Addiction (including smoking & drinking)- Substance abuse (including syringes)- Spiders (including SFX)- Implied queerphobia / transphobia- Humiliation- Schadenfreude and forced laughter- Maladaptive coping mechanisms & relapse Thanks to this week's Patrons: Elizaveta, roswyrm, mirsa, eet, Amy Prehm, Christian Otholm, Toni, Ellis Beale, Jaderz, A.Ninja, a New name, Sharon Grafton, Eloise Sherrid, Leslie Safran, Mars, Stewart Smith, CirrusGrey, Emma Sandgren, Nicole Stevenson, Meg Taylor, Carine Lee, Liz, Fushi, Iain Bradley, Fire in Dark Woods, Dave (the good china, now pls), Cher Carlisle, Rashika Rao, Mithy Carlan, Ruth Anderson, Michelle M, Roo Jones, kailajay, Clara Edmonds, Marimo, DapperCyborg, DT, Samantha Minnette, Gail, Ashley Dovahkitten, Sieben, Amnesiac Stowaway, Fish, Lisa F, Ya Boi Vince, Kali Moogle, Kristine, Cyncit, Kiera Mortensen, meaty thwackIf you'd like to join them visit www.patreon.com/rustyquillEdited this week by Annie Fitch, Elizabeth Moffatt, Brock Winstead & Alexander J NewallWritten by Jonathan Sims and directed by Alexander J NewallProduced by Lowri Ann DaviesPerformances:- "Martin Blackwood" - Alexander J. Newall - "The Archivist" - Jonathan Sims Sound effects this week by mlsulli, Podcapocalipsis, Raulitoto, checholio, khenshom, 6polnic, J.Zazvurek, MDRivet, Processaurus, Kinoton, lonemonk, J.Zazvurek, YleArkisto, Kinoton, Kyster, jayfrosting, Jedo, Mirko Horstmann, kyles, nervousneal, temawas, tom_woysky, JohnsonBrandEditing, harleto, gchase, 13GPanska_Markova_Lucie, abbahoot, hachiman935, dav0r, craigsmith, Aiwha, spanrucker, alirabiei, InspectorJ, FunWithSound, klankbeeld, TheWah, thaihaudio, Sandermotions, Glaneur de sons, taure, tangotango1, MrAuralization& previously credited artists via freesound.org.The Magnus Archives is a podcast distributed by Rusty Quill Ltd. and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Sharealike 4.0 International... Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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Episode 172 Strung out. Hold up, I need to... Now? Seriously? We're almost out of here. I'm sorry, not really up to me. Fine. If you're bored, you could always take in a show. That's... that's not funny, John. If you say so.

Just... just give me a shout when you're done, alright? Good. Right. Ticket for one then, I suppose. The Tragedy of Francis. A comic puppet show in all acts. Act 48,067. A stage that is a room that remains a stage. The audience watches, drooling, expectant.

A table stands in the middle with a single chair. On that table can be seen a bottle, cigarettes, paraphernalia of all shapes, sizes and consumptions. From the space above the stage hang the hooks. They shift gently without the breeze. As eager and hungry as the patrons in the seats. Enter Francis, stage left. They walk slowly, unsteadily.

Every limb is shaking. Francis, softly. Please. Please, God, not again. I don't want it to happen again. Pause for laughter. The spider, offstage. Then walk away, Francis. Just turn and leave. All that is required is a little bit of willpower.

You have a little bit of willpower, don't you? Francis begins to cry. They turn back towards the wings, keen to make their exit. But where they stood a moment before, there is now a dangling hook. It lunges at Francis, digging into their leg, pushing through the flesh of their thigh. There is a thin trickle of blood. There is a thick shot of pain. Francis's father, offstage.

Useless piece of shit. You need to grow up. Pause for laughter. The hook lifts Francis's leg off the ground. They hop painfully, trying to escape, but the thread pulls tight, dragging them towards the table. The spider, offstage. What a funny little dance, Francis. Such a funny dance. Francis simply screams in response. It is a scream of anger as much as it is of

pain, and it cannot hide the dreadful inevitability they feel, the dull terror that this act will end like all the others. In their thrashing jig they stumble into another hanging hook. It burrows into their wrist with a noise of triumph. Francis's mother, offstage. I just worry about you, dear, that's all. We want what's best for you, even if you can't see it. I'm sure you'll grow out of it. Between the two silk strings, Francis dangles, eyes darting wildly about. Francis, why are you doing this?

The spider's giggle echoes around the stage. Pause for laughter. The spider twists the string, alternating which of the two lines is taut, causing Francis to whirl and pivot towards the table. Its bulbous, distended abdomen can now begin to be seen protruding from above the curtains that fringe the stage. Francis goes limp, briefly allowing the spider to guide their movements smoothly. The spider. Good, Francis. Good. Without warning, Francis kicks their free leg against the table.

It does not move. It is part of the tableau. The force of the motion sends them staggering backwards. Another hook brushes past their cheek and takes its chance, ripping through the corner of their mouth and pulling it up into a grimace. Ryan. A friend. Off stage. You never smile when you're clean.

Did you know that? I mean, what have you got to be so sad about? Honestly. You do make it hard sometimes. I don't know. Francis tries to respond but the hook in their mouth pulls tight and their lips curve upwards distorting the words.

Francis. Shut up! Pause for laughter. distorting the words Francis shut up pause for laughter Francis tries to use their free hand to pull the razored metal barb from their mouth but the spider reaches down a leg and pulls hoisting its victim up by their face

the agonising motion is too sudden to even give them time to scream, and their free leg kicks out, impotently into the air. It hits against another hook, which penetrates their worn and weary boots with ease, digging up through the sole and out through the back of the ankle. Christy, a lover, offstage. Christy, a lover, offstage Come on, helps me get in the mood, you know Just a nice thing to do together

Makes me feel close to you As it lowers them back to the ground Francis tries again to curse at the spider To tell it it has no right to these voices To leave all of them out of this But the pain of the hooks travels up and down their veins in thin lines of needling torment and robs them of their voice. The spider leans closer.

Its grinning face and quivering mandibles can now be seen. Its abdomen throbs with anticipation. The spider. Oh, but I did not bring them. I did not write their lines in your little farce. You are the one that brought them. You devised the steps of this dance. I am simply here to help you through them when you forget. Oh, watch out. The spider pulls abruptly on the threads hooked into Francis' legs, and they tumble forward, face-planting in a nasty-looking pratfall. Pause for laughter.

Francis' free hand hits at the wooden floor of the stage weakly. It is unclear whether they hope to achieve something, or if it is just an expression of despair. The hook in their cheek pulls tight enough to form a grim smile of sorts. Francis. What do you want? The spider. The same thing I always want, Francis.

Every time we do this dance, every single act of our hilarious production. I want what you want deep, deep down in the hidden bit of you you've tried so hard to kill. You can't wait for the dance to conclude, Francis. I don't want that anymore. It's different now. I'm different now. I've worked so hard. The spider. I don't care. The strings all go taut at once, yanking the weakly protesting Francis to their feet. They are dragged back and forth and around in a series of clumsy motions that, in another time, in another place, might have been a waltz.

But a waltz has a partner. Francis only has a desire, an itch in their bones that flows into them, drip by oily drip, down the slick and glistening strands that suspend them, guide them, hold them. A desire which injects itself through razor-barbed hooks and pools inside their stomach. They don't want to want it, but... Pause for laughter. The spider. A fine dance, Francis. That last measure, I barely plucked the strings. Now come, sit down. It's time for a break.

I know how much you've been looking forward to it. The spider is almost fully descended now. Its bulk eclipses everything above Francis's head, and it swells with joy and amusement. Francis, please, let me go. Just let me go. The spider. Just let me go. The spider. Oh, Francis, it's such a shame, but I couldn't do such a thing, even if I wanted to.

The man in the audience saw to that. I am no more free than you are, little puppet. Ah, if only you could see the strings that bind me, that wind together as they pull me along my own path. Perhaps then you would not blame me so. But they are not the tripping threads that we are here to watch, no. So sit, Francis. It's time. Another tug of the hooks stretches the skin as Francis staggers towards the table.

The blood flows faster, so dark it is almost black. Their chest rises and falls rapidly as they are lowered into the only seat, the dusty air of the theatre scratching their throat and drying their mouth. There is the taste of tin growing stronger. The hits are all arranged before them, spread across the table in a cornucopia of promised oblivions, releases and delights. Francis feels the hooks tighten as they look upon the offering. That deepest want bubbles up to the surface, but at its core there is still that mute fear, that anticipation of what surrender will bring. There is no escape to be found here, no respite from the charade that is now the sum of Francis's existence. By now, Francis knows with utter

clarity what falling to the call will bring, the awful crawling fate that they will endure before the next act eventually begins. The syringe vibrates almost imperceptibly as the dark mass of legs and tiny glittering eyes that sit within it shifts in anticipation. The cork of the bottle moves ever so slightly proud of the top, pushed by the unfurling thing inside. The cigarette scuttles closer, inch by impatient inch. Their longing is awful and mutual. Pause. Francis. I don't want it. Any of it. The spider does not reply. Staring over the table, a memory now tugs at Francis, the faintest residue of an earlier time, when the things before them would have brought a genuine joy to their heart, and even a temporary peace.

A time when the hunger was sharp and real, not this dull, unending ache that does nothing but propel them towards one grotesque act of consumption after another, but, for all their keen awareness of what it might mean to do so, Francis cannot deny the want the spider has gifted them. They resist. They sit oh so very still and keep their hands held tight to their chest. Francis. No, not this time. I won't. Pause for laughter. Francis looks up at the spider. So close now the thick drippings of its jaws fall onto their shoulders in a sticky stream. It says nothing, but a hook leaps from the darkness backstage,

fastening itself into the soft skin on the back of Francis's free hand. Francis, offstage. You don't get it. Like, it's my decision. I know what I'm doing. Just, can we stop talking about it, please? It's fine. It just, it just helps. It helps. Francis' whole body shudders at the sound of their own voice. So the hook pulls their arm forward, across the table. Francis. No. No! Their hand closes on the bottle,

which shifts and chitters with delight as Francis, shaking, brings it close. The spider's legs twitch and jerk as it shifts the doomed marionette's strings. Francis watches as their hand gently uncorks the bottle, and the first of the tiny crawling spiders begins to emerge, just as their mouth is yanked open by its hook, and their arm upends the bottle. As Francis feels the cascade crawl over their tongue and down their throat, they wonder, just for a moment, whether this is better or worse than when they scuttle up through their veins or down into their lungs.

It is an impossible question, and quite, quite pointless. Above them, their tormentor cries out in exultation as its abdomen ruptures, and the spiders within are joined by a rain of countless tiny legs from above, covering them, embracing them, drowning them. There is no unconsciousness here, no calm detachment or serene buzz. There is only the arachnids, biting, scurrying, consuming. And so it will be until the curtain descends at last and the spider resets the scene, its belly already beginning to swell once again, with replacements

for the creatures it so gawrily birthed. Pause for laughter. And so the curtain descends. The Tragedy of Francis. A comic puppet show in all acts. Act 48,068. A stage that is a room that remains a stage. The audience... What?

Sorry, you were starting another and I didn't want to wait. We should get going. You were starting another and I didn't want to wait. We should get going. You were listening. I thought that... No, not for most of it. I just thought I heard something. Whatever. I went exploring, right? I don't know why. I shouldn't have. No, you shouldn't have. You know how many stages there are in this place? How many little theatres?

Yes. Yes, I do. Right, stupid question. Martin. Well, let's just say they have a full bill, alright? Martin. What? Why did you go looking? Can we just go, please?

Of course, but you were safe here. And after everything that's already happened, I... I just don't understand why you would... Me neither, okay? What? I mean, that's it, isn't it? I don't know. I don't know why I went exploring. Are you saying you were compelled? I'm saying I don't know, do I? I thought I was just curious. It felt like curiosity, but given where we are, and with the web everywhere, and Annabelle Kane still out there playing mind games with payphones, I just... I mean, how do you even know if it's your motivation, you know? Being here, it just makes me second-guess all of it, and I don't like it. It really scares me.

I, uh... Don't say that's what it wants, I know. I wasn't going to. Okay. I was going to suggest that I could maybe... No. I could look. Just a quick peek to see if it was just curiosity or something else.

Well? I don't... If you look, and I was... Influenced... Then how can I trust anything else? How can I believe any of my thoughts and feelings are really mine? Well, I'll still be here to check. I'm not leaving you. Sure, but you'd be looking through the details of everything that ever crosses my mind?

I don't want that. You know I don't want that. I know. Don't do this to yourself, Martin. This is what it wants, the paranoia. Trust me, I know. Fair. Fair. John, what does the web want? It's... I mean, we know it's got a plan. Can't you just see what it is? Knowing, seeing, it's not the same thing as understanding. time I try to know what the web's plan is, if it can even be called a plan, I see a hundred thousand events and causes and links, an impossibly intricate pattern of consequences and subtle

nudges, but I can't hold them all in my head at the same time. There's no way to see the whole, the point of it all. I can see all the details, but it doesn't provide context or intention. I suppose the web doesn't work in knowledge. Not in the same way. Oh. Right. Sorry. Danabelle?

Still can't see her. If it wasn't for the phone call, I'd have said she was probably already dead. Yeah. So... Do you want me to? To tell you if... No. No, I'll just have to live with it, I guess.

Hardly the worst thing I'll have gone through since... It's fine. Would you like to leave now? Yeah, screw this place. Never liked the theatre anyway. To be continued... produced by Laurie-Anne Davis and directed by Alexander J. Newell. It featured Alexander J. Newell as Martin Blackwood and Jonathan Sims as the Archivist.

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