Dearest Readers of the London Gazette and Tannery,
Much has been made of the mechanical genius of a certain Ms. Carlisle from Birmingham, who has created no less than a giant man of metal, who, it is purported, may walk on his own two legs, much as any human being might; may travel across the country in one-tenth of the time that even the fastest rider would travel on horseback; may construct a house single-handedly, in only the most literal sense of the term, within a single day, where it might take a team of bricklayers the better part of a month to erect such a domicile; and, most thrillingly, may speak his thoughts and express his emotions, as if he were any other man of flesh and bone and not a titan of metal towering above our city-lines.
Though Ms. Carlisle has insisted on absolute privacy as she puts the finishing touches on this automaton amazement and readies it for public presentation before the Queen of England this fall, I, through a variety of close contacts, favors, and connections, have managed to secure the agreement of Ms. Carlisle, pertaining to my right to interview her metal man, which she has dubbed a “mecha”. Yes, dear readers — today, I shall not be interviewing the genius behind this inconceivable contraption, but rather the machine itself! I shall speak not with Victor Frankenstein, but with his very own monster!
My morning travel to Birmingham, dear reader, was short and uneventful, save for an incident in which we were waylaid by a flock of flying goblins as we passed Luton; and another incident in which the Ruffian Masia, those dastardly band of two-faced werewolves, boarded the train at Northampton Station, and demanded we turn over precisely one passenger by the name of Sir Christian of Bale; who indeed was aboard the train and appeared a healthy and fine gentleman clad entirely in black; and who, upon hearing his name be called, did calmly reply that that was not his name at all, but instead that he was called Master Bruce of House Wayne; and did, upon the utterance of such a name, transform into such a creature as to resemble a man become a bat, with terrible wings sprouting from his arms, and monstrous horns rising from his head; and, whence this transformation had indeed completed, Master Bruce of House Wayne did proceed to do battle with the Ruffian Masia at Northampton Station, engaging what seemed to be twenty individuals in total with demonic skill and strength; and did indeed rid the train of such terrible interlopers, before declaring that he had business elsewhere, thusly departing the train at Northampton Station; and, indeed, another minor incident when we came upon Coventry City, when a band of individuals clad in the dress of what appeared to be that of Robin Hood and his merry men boarded the train; but they themselves were all the stranger than their manner of clothing, for indeed there was one man who appeared positively jaundiced, with the sickly yellow coloration of his skin; and, beyond him, another man with dark skin, who, by the reckoning of the horrible ridges upon his forehead, did appear to have sustained such grievous injuries previously in life, and had not the means to repair or conceal his wounds; and, beyond even him, yet another man who seemed to wear some kind of white brick where his eyes might have been, and appeared positively strange altogether; and, in truth, I ramble on too long, dear reader, for none of these events were of any import, interest, or intrigue whatsoever.
No, it was an uneventful journey to Birmingham, at which time I was greeted by a woman who I believed to be Ms. Carlisle, but did turn out to be her younger sister instead, a red-haired woman with, dare I say, a satanic smile. It was she who led me to the warehouse on the outskirts of Birmingham where the metallic creature was kept, and the first-ever conversation between journalist and machine seemed nigh at hand. I brimmed with anticipation, dear reader, feeling such electric shock within me that I myself might have been made of metal in that moment.
When the younger Ms. Carlisle did show me to the warehouse where her elder sister’s creation was kept, I did not think much of it, for this was the kind of warehouse seen all over Britannia, and it scarcely seemed possible that the future of our world lied within its rickety wooden doors. I stepped within, and before me sat crouched the most incredible sight my eyes did ever see.
The stories you hear, dear reader, are no exaggeration. Ms. Carlisle of Birmingham has indeed crafted an incredible man of metal, so large that a fully grown human man might stand only as tall as one of its fingers. It, in truth, cannot be mistaken for any man, its upper arms are too thin when compared to its polygonal forearms; and likewise its thighs appear mere pipes next to its boxy calves. But do not get the wrong impression, reader, for even these thinner portions of Ms. Carlisle’s great invention might be as wide as two Tudor doors. Its face, mind you, is no human face, but wrought of iron and steel, with a prominent underbite in its jaw, and two large, darkened eyes, and its chest has a giant cavity large enough to fit any person of any size within it. So, I say again, it cannot be mistaken for any man; but perhaps, I say, this is greater than any man may ever be.
The younger Ms. Carlisle did proceed to the other side of the warehouse, pulling what seemed to be some kind of lever, and, like the Lord says, there was light. The eyes of the giant opened wide, shining a soft yellow, and it looked up — indeed, as any man might! — it looked up at its surroundings, as if waking from a pleasant nap, then fixated its gigantic gaze upon me.
The younger Ms. Carlisle then told me that I was free to ask it any questions I wished, and that she was here if I had any questions for her, and that her sister, the true inventor, might be along soon, but that she, the elder Ms. Carlisle, would not be taking any questions, and that I would have to leave as soon as she arrived, per our agreement. I could not disagree that that was indeed the agreement we had come to, so I stepped forward, arched my neck towards the machine, towards the heavens itself, and began my interview, which I have recorded here, unedited, for your reading pleasure.
* * *
Good afternoon, mecha. How are you?
… [The mecha tilts its head at me and opens its eyes wide.]
Mecha, I asked, how are you?
… [The mecha shrugs, raising one hand and moving it side to side.]
Mecha, do you have a name?
… [The mecha nods vigorously, straightens up, and points to a large sign the size of the side of a barn affixed to its chest. It reads, in bright red paint, “HELO MY NÆME IS REDSLAGORATH MOUNTINGHILL.” I notice what appears to be a giant paintbrush laying along the length of the warehouse.]
Your name is Redslagorath Mountinghill, mecha?
… [The mecha nods vigorously.]
Did you give yourself this name?
… [The mecha shrugs again, and points to MOUNTINGHILL, then to himself.]
So you chose Mountinghill for your last name. Am I correct, then, that your creator gave you your first?
… [The mecha points at me, nods vigorously, and gives a thumbs up.]
Why did she choose this name, Redslagorath, for you?
… [The mecha stares at me.]
Redslagorath, why are you called Redslagorath?
… [The mecha stares at me.]
Very well. You say you chose the name Mountinghill for yourself. Why this name, Mountinghill? Does it have a special meaning?
… [The mecha stares at me.]
What, Mr. Mountinghill — may I call you Mr. Mountinghill?
… [The mecha shrugs and nods along.]
Mr. Mountinghill, I am not sure if you are aware, but you have a large hole in your chest. Are you quite alright?
… [The mech shrugs, then nods.]
I’ll take your word for it. Do you have a favorite thing to do?
… [The mecha moves its arms side to side, miming jogging.]
You like to run, Mr. Mountinghill?
… [The mecha nods vigorously.]
Where do you like to run to, Mr. Mountinghill?
… [The mecha taps its chin, then moves its hands in a wave-like motion.]
You like to run to the sea, Mr. Mountinghill?
… [The mecha nods vigorously.]
I understand. And is there something you would like to do that you have not yet?
… [The mecha pauses for a moment, then pushes its hands outwards.]
You would like to read books?
… [The mecha tilts its head at me, and repeats the motion.]
You would like to dance?
… [The mecha shrugs, but then shakes its head, and repeats the motion.]
Oh! You would like to swim!
… [The mecha nods vigorously.]
Is there some place you are most excited to see, Mr. Mountinghill?
… [The mecha puts its hands together in a triangle shape.]
You would like to see a mountain?
… [The mecha nods vigorously.]
Why would you like to see a mountain?
… [The mecha thinks, then touches the ceiling.]
I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Mountinghill.
… [The mecha leans down, as far as it will go, and spots the open door, pointing at the sky.]
You would like to see the sky?
… [The mecha shakes its head, touches the ceiling, then points towards the sky.]
You would like to touch the sky?
… [The mecha nods vigorously.]
I wish you good luck with that, Mr. Mountinghill—
… [The mecha shakes its head and hands, and points to the REDSLAGORATH portion of its nametag.]
Redslagorath?
… [The mecha nods vigorously.]
Very well, Redslagorath. I wish you good luck with that. Now—
* * *
It was at this junction in the interview that Ms. Carlisle the elder strode in through the open door, carrying a box of parts, and took one look at me, and immediately snapped her fingers at me. “You. Out. He hasn’t been too much trouble, has he?”
“No,” I responded, scribbling down some final notes. “In fact, Redslagorath was quite the gentleman—”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” responded the elder Ms. Carlisle, looking to her sister across the room, and pointing to, of all people, me. “This guy didn’t do anything crazy, did he?”
“Not at all, sister,” said the younger Ms. Carlisle. “It was rather adorable, actually, how he spoke to Red.”
“Great. I won’t read about it in the paper later,” declared the elder, storming past me, before stopping and turning back. She asked if the fee we had agreed for this interview, which I shall not name here, but rest assured is well worth the joy of speaking to such an enlightened individual as Redslagorath Mountinghill, would be deposited in her account this evening, which I did indeed confirm. “Excellent. Then get out.”
I could not help but protest, though, for there was one question I had forgotten to ask, and which I would not be satisfied without an answer to. Though we had agreed otherwise, I blurted out, “Ms. Carlisle, I thought Redslagorath spoke aloud, as any other man might. Why, in fact, did he not utter a word to me today?”
“That wasn’t our agreement,” she answered curtly.
“I am aware, but my readers will want to know,” I responded, and I do believe I am correct in that assertion.
She hesitated, then cracked a grin. “Yeah, OK, why not?” She jabbed at herself proudly. “Red only talks to me. Now, good day, Mr. Jones.”
She walked away, leaving me rather confused. I thought, dear reader, that Redslagorath had talked to me just fine.
* * *
[Editor’s Note: This piece is part of the “Beat Boltsy Flay (And His College Testbook)” contest collection. In response, and in spite, to a section in his creative writing textbook which explicitly discouraged such a piece as ineffective and inadvisable, M&M admin Jenson Doan, whose Discord username is HeroBoltsy, challenged writers to tell short stories under 2000 words in the fantasy, espionage, horror, or romance genres; and, furthermore, to write more such qualified stories as a group than him in the span of four weeks. The current score of the Beat Boltsy Flay challenge stands at M&M 10 – 10 Jenson. There are 0 days, 1 hour, and 4 minutes left on the clock.]
