Delusions of Grandeur

A short story

Photo by Felicia Birloi on Unsplash

This story was published today by the Soaring Twenties Social Club. Check it out on the STSC page and consider joining!

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“You want to know about me? I’m flattered though I understand your interest. Of course you would want to know about me. Who wouldn’t? I won’t call myself the most influential figure of the twenty-first century but I won’t not call myself the most influential figure of the twenty-first century.

“It goes back to my childhood, really, as is so often the case. I was four years old when I realized that I was destined for greatness. It wasn’t a slow creeping realization rather one that happened all at once in a flash of awareness and consciousness-expanding discovery. 

“I was young then, only four as I mentioned, years that is, not days ha ha, young but old enough to have such a realization. I had just finished a plateful of Panko Breaded Chicken Nuggets™—my favorite, which I ate religiously with ketchup—religiously because I would squirt the ketchup on the plate in a cross pattern and it wasn’t until many years later that I recognized this as a sign from God—but I digress. Ketchup scooped up and smeared around the plate, nuggets eaten, fingers licked but still greasy, I realized suddenly that I had to use the toilet. This was the first hint that some incredible transformation was about to take place. Typically, I had realized I needed to make a wee only after I had dribbled a small quantity of urine into my white Sears briefs, too late as the case would be since such a dribble would necessitate a change of briefs and pants. But that day I had realized before the dribble, before the flood, and with that realization came a new sense of power over my body, my environment, my universe. I was no longer at the mercy of mere biology. I could surmount the confines of the merely physical.

“Without a word to my parents at the table, I trotted off to the bathroom, pulled down shorts and briefs in one go, and prepared to mount the toilet. It was then that the full force of my realization struck me. I need not sit upon the toilet like a subservient cur shaking and vulnerable on the porcelain throne. I could, as my father had done before me and his father before him, stand before the bowl and make myself master of my domain. I stood, briefs and pants around my ankles, took aim, and fired. 

“I cannot now begin to describe the awesome feeling of power, the instant knowledge that I was no longer becoming, I had become. I completed my toilet, washed my hands, and announced to my parents that I was now a man and one for whom there were no limits, not anymore. A brief interrogation followed through which my parents, despite my evasions, discovered the secret of my transformation. After they had cleaned the toilet lid they sat me down and talked at me about how to properly go to the bathroom standing up but I was already miles away too busy to listen, processing the newfound knowledge that greatness had found me and nothing could stop me.

“Ever since then every time that I stand to urinate—which is many times a day—$.89 large half-decaf half-regular coffees from the Seven-Eleven aren’t going to drink themselves—and empty my bladder I am reminded of that moment, I relive that moment, and I know that I am on the right path for greatness to continue to find me every day. How, you might ask. Ah, well. That’s the question. Here I am. And here you are. And you’ve found me.”

I said, “Yeah, okay. And who are you?”

The man sat back in his chair, the feverish light dimming in his beady black eyes partially hidden by unkempt hair. “You know, I’m surprised. I really am. I’ll admit that. I thought that you were someone in search of the truth but you’re not, you’re like everyone else. You just want to project your thoughts, your ideas, your conceptions,” he sat forward, “your misconceptions onto me.”

“Let me start over,” I said, now wary of my counterpart, “I’m Christian Davies. Like I said when I came in—sorry about that by the way, I didn’t think anyone lived here—I was hiking in the woods and I found your cabin. I was just hoping you could give me some directions back down the mountain. So yeah, I’m Christian. What’s your name?”

The man stroked his beard. “My name is Terror. My name is Thunder and Lightning. Some call me Phoenix, others River Fox.”

“So I should call you…?”

He sighed. “My parents named me Antioch after where I was born. Antioch Fritchens.”

“Never heard of you.”

“Of course you haven’t heard of me,” he said, erupting then calming down. “Of course not. How many influential people do you actually know?”

“Personally? Not many.”

“Know of, then.”

“Lots, I guess. Trump, Obama, Bin Laden, Lech Wałęsa, Steve Jobs, Bill Gates, Napoleon, Hitler, Stalin—”

He waved a hand. “All irrelevant. All figureheads. I’m talking about the real influential people.”

I shrugged. “I guess none then.”

“Ah,” he held up a finger, “you now know one. Antioch Fritchens. It’s an honor for you to meet me.”

“Okay? Are you named after the ancient city? That’s pretty cool.”

“No, no. Antioch, Illinois. It’s a small village in Lake County, population 14,622 as of the 2020 census. It’s about halfway between Chicago and Milwaukee.”

“Ah. I see. My mistake.”

Antioch looked out the window wistfully. “Mistakes, ah, mistakes. If only I had been born in Antioch, the pride and joy of Seleucus I Nicator, the capital of the Seleucid Empire, then my greatness, my future might have been realized all the sooner, my star ascendant in the East, my destiny lying in the West here in Paradox, Colorado.”

I stood up slowly. “You know what? Don’t worry about it. I’ll just take my chances on the mountain, see which way the sun is going and head east. I’ll get somewhere eventually.” I shouldered my pack. “Do you have any water? I’m running low.”

“But you can’t go now! I was going to make vichyssoise and crème caramel. And night is falling. There’s no way you’ll make it back down the mountain tonight.”

Although clearly insane, he seemed earnest enough and he hadn’t actually shown any hostility toward me, nothing physical at least. 

“I really don’t want to impose.”

“Nonsense. It will be a great honor for you to stay here with me. Then you will be able to tell everyone you know that you met Antioch Fritchens and shared a meal with him and knew him when he was…well, what I am you will just have to find out.”

I looked around the tiny cabin. Four walls, bed, chair, wood stove in the corner next to the counter and couple cabinets that served as the kitchen, windows in two of the walls. 

“Vichyssoise?” I said, doubt apparent in my voice.

Antioch inclined his head slightly. “You have doubts. That is natural. Let me show you.”

Rising he stumped in his big boots to the kitchen and began producing, seemingly from nowhere, leeks, onions, potatoes, dried herbs, salt, and pepper.

“Here.” He held out a large pot. “The well pump is out back.”

I didn’t move for a moment.

“Do ye want to eat or not?”

I took the pot and went out the door and around the cabin. In front the woods had come in close, encroaching on the cabin, threatening it, but in back there was a small clearing full of sun and little purple flowers and the autumn breeze. The well pump squeaked and rattled as I levered it up and down and with a rising gurgle it poured out water in fits and spurts. 

Antioch hadn’t told me how much water he wanted so I filled the pot halfway then cupped my hand under the spigot and brought it to my mouth before thinking better of it and tipping the water onto the grass. 

“Can you drink this water?” I said, putting the pot on the stove. “Do you filter it somehow?”

“Filter? Filter what?” He dumped two handfuls of leeks into the pot. “Where do you think that water comes from? It’s not some muddy worm-ridden puddle on the side of the road. That water comes from a hundred feet down. It’s gone through gravel and sand and limestone and traveled a thousand miles. It’s as clean as clean can be. Hand me that.” He indicated a small box on the open shelf.

Selecting one bullion cube from the box he tossed it in the pot. 

“My secret.” He grinned. “Stock is hard to come by up here.”

I went and filled my water bottle from the pump and by the time I got back potatoes and onions had joined the leeks in the pot. In went salt, pepper, and the herbs. He wiped his hands on his plaid lumberjack shirt.

“What’re those?” I said.

“Marjoram and thyme. I grow them myself. The potatoes too. Nothing easier to grow than a potato.”

“Do you put cream in?”

“Ah, so you know something about cooking. No, cream is a luxury up here. You see a fridge?”

“No. No electricity, I guess?”

“Nope. Let’s get some wood for the fire.”

I gathered kindling from the woodpile and watched as Antioch took a knife to one and scraped the edge to produce tiny curls of shavings still attached at one end. 

“Called a featherstick. It’ll light real easy.”

Wood placed in the stove I looked around. “Do you have a tinder or…?”

Antioch laughed. “I’m not a caveman.” He grabbed a box of matches hidden behind the stove, struck one, and held it delicately under the featherstick. It went up in a flash and caught the rest of the kindling. He added first one then a second larger log—larger than the kindling but they still seemed small to me.

“You don’t need any bigger logs?”

“We’re making a cooking fire, not a bonfire. You don’t need to cut down a hundred year old tree to make a fire. Small sticks will work just fine and burn down to coals that are plenty hot. You know anything about coppicing?”

I shook my head.

“Unlimited wood. You ever see where beavers live the trees are growing up from a single stump but there’re five or more shoots coming up from the stump? Same thing if you cut down a tree to the stump in the winter. It’ll start growing back real quick in the spring and you’ll have lots of firewood or if you let it grow longer you’ll have straight sticks for fences or making whatever.”

“Why are you up here, Antioch?”

He stared at the fire for a moment the shut the stove door.

“Why are you up here?” He said back.

I shrugged. “I was hiking.”

“You live in Paradox?”

“Yeah.”

“Small town.”

“Yeah.”

“Real small town.”

“You wanna get out?”

“I don’t know.”

“People don’t really hike around here. Not really the tourist spot.”

“So?”

“So what’re you doing hiking up here?”

I suddenly felt defensive. “I wasn’t looking for you if that’s what you’re saying.”

He eased himself into one of the chairs at the little table. “Nah, but you’re looking for something.”

“I dunno. I just get out and explore.”

“So you do want to get out.”

“Maybe. So what? I thought we were talking about you. I asked what you’re doing up here.”

“Same as you. Getting out. Getting away.”

“From what? The great Antioch Fritchens can’t face the world? He took one piss standing up and turned tail and ran?”

Antioch snarled. “I didn’t run from anyone.” He sat back, huffing. “A kid like you giving me a hard time. How old are you? Eighteen? I’m seventy-two years old. I’m old enough to be your grandfather. You wanna be a man and hash it out, alright then.”

He got up and went over to the kitchen. 

I don’t know what I thought he was going to get. Maybe a knife to gut me. I was taken aback by his sudden intensity which had dwindled to near normalcy while we had made the soup and prepared the fire. Somehow though I didn’t believe he’d actually hurt me and I was more than a little curious. 

He set a clear glass bottle full of clear liquid on the table and two shot glasses.

“You wanna talk? Let’s talk. And no talking about drinking. Just drinking while talking.”

He poured the two glasses and set on in front of the empty chair opposite him. I came over from where I had still been standing by the stove and sat down.

“You think I’m eighteen and you’re giving me liquor?”

“What about it?”

I shrugged. “I’m not eighteen. I’m twenty-two.”

“See? No problem. What’d you care about laws up here for anyway?” He waved a hand around indicating the cabin, the mountainside, the whole desolate country.

“What is it?”

“Potato vodka. I make it myself.”

I drank, knocking back half the shot. It burned going down and settled in the pit of my stomach where it remained smoldering. “Not bad,” I croaked. “So what makes you so special that you’re the most influential man in the world but I’ve never heard of you?”

“Straight to the point. Alright then. I could tell you but you wouldn’t believe me.”

“That’s a cop out. All you’ve told me so far is you learned how to piss standing up. Big deal.” The vodka was starting to work on me and I was feeling reckless.

He narrowed his brows. “Insulting me in my own house? I don’t owe you or anyone else an explanation. I’ve done great things and I’ll do more. It’s all about what I’ve got going on up here,” he said, tapping the side of his head. “Plans within plans, wheels upon wheels, the wheels of inevitable progress.”

“Like what?”

He sighed. “You just don’t understand. Here, look.”

Antioch went over to the wall next to the bed and got down on his knees. He pulled up a floorboard and brought back a stack of yellow legal pads which he placed on the table as gently as if it was a baby. 

“Here. I’ve never shown these to anyone. It’s all there. Well, most of it.”

I picked up the top notebook and started flipping pages. They were covered in large, scrawling handwriting and crude diagrams. There didn’t seem to be any complete sentences or any continuous thread or narrative. I noticed multiple mentions of the ‘Underwriters’ and the ‘Council of Three’ and diagrams of new elements, as yet to be discovered, and a map of the United States showing interconnecting lines labeled as ‘The Noble Network.’

“Do you understand now?”

I hesitated. “A bit more but not really.”

“That’s alright. I wouldn’t expect you to get it all at once. Ah! Let’s check the soup.”

The soup was bubbling nicely and Antioch pounded away with the ladle. 

“I don’t have a blender—not that I can plug it in anyway, ha ha—so I just mash it up with this ladle. Works well enough and there’s still nothing like warm soup on a cold autumn day no matter the consistency.”

I smiled and feeling a sudden urge said, “Do you have a bathroom?”

Antioch jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the woods. “There’s a shovel out back.”

I grabbed some toilet paper from my bag and went out. 

Outside the light was failing and the air had turned cold. The sky had become overcast and the sunny glade looked less inviting now, dull and gray. The vodka was still warming me from the inside but outside there was a chill blowing down from the mountain and as I finished a huge wet snowflake drifted down and stuck to the tip of my dong. I laughed uncontrollably then dug a hole, squatted, covered the hole and went back inside.

“It’s snowing and you’ll never guess—hey!”

Antioch was poised over my camp bag. He looked up sheepishly. “Oh, I…sorry.” He stood looking at the floor like a puppy who’d just been scolded.

The anger left me. “It’s alright, just tell me what you need.”

“I was just seeing if you had anything I could add to our little feast.”

“Yeah. Just ask next time.”

I went over to the bag and pulled out half a loaf of bread and a couple sticks of beef jerky.

“Bread? That’s very old fashioned hiking food,” Antioch said.

“Yeah, it keeps me going like nothing else.”

“Do you mind if we…?”

“No, not at all. It’ll go well with the vichyssoise.”

Antioch put the pot on the table and served out the soup into two wooden bowls. I split the bread in half and opened the beef jerky. He added another log to the stove then brought an oil lamp to the table, sat down, and filled both shot glasses. 

The soup was surprisingly good, not just hot so as to warm me up but tasty too, the leek and potato and onion combining into a delicious mush. We ate in silence then sat back and listened to the fire. Antioch lit a pipe and poured more vodka for both of us.

He didn’t seem to be much of a drinker because the liquor was having the same effect on him as on me. My chest felt warm, the room buzzed, crackling fire grew louder. 

“Do you really believe all that stuff in your notebooks?”

“Believe. What’s believe? What’s real?”

I struck the table. “That’s real. I’m real. You’re real.”

“Eyes can be deceived. Ears can hear false echoes. Your nose can be confused; was that rosemary or cut grass I smelled?” He had swelled while talking but, falling silent, he looked deflated. “I don’t know what I believe. It’s all a jumble up here.” He tapped his head. “I got a wild imagination. Always have. Makes things seem more real, more important. My dad called ‘em delusions of grandeur.”

“Can I tell you something? I lied when I asked for directions. I’ve been by here before, seen your cabin, but I never had the guts to come knocking, thought whoever lived here might shoot me or something.”

“But you tried anyway! Old Terror didn’t scare you.”

“Does anyone call you that?”

“My third grade math teacher did. Frightful woman. Tiny hands. She scared me so I returned the favor.”

“What’d you do after grade school?”

“I dropped out after eighth grade. Worked at the local rail depot for a while then I hit the road. I did odd jobs. Paper boy, bus boy, janitor at a zoo, then Assistant Secretary of State for Illinois—did a lot of work with the DMV, which was ironic because I didn’t know how to drive at the time—then I bounced around a bit more, shrimping in the Gulf, tattoo removal artist in Lawrence, Kansas, combine operator in Iowa, long-haul trucker. Then I just had enough and came out here. I was driving through and just stopped and sold my truck and that was it. I never really told anybody that. Haven’t had many friends. But you get old and the cold starts getting to you and you wonder if anyone will remember you” (he took a shot of potato moonshine) “and you know I’m not lonely up here I just got no one to talk to. My choice, anyway.”

I sipped my drink.

“Drink it, boy! Don’t just sip.”

I knocked it back. “What’s the Council of Three,” I said, grinning stupidly.

He pointed at me, resting an elbow on the table. “That—now that’s real. That’s real. Okay? That’s real.” He counted off with his fingers. “The Pope. The Shah of Iran. The Chair of the Federal Reserve.”

“The Shah of Iran is dead.”

“Ah, aha! Yes. That’s what they want you to think.”

“What about Elvis?”

Antioch’s face turned savage. “Don’t make fun. Don’t make fun of me. I wouldn’t make fun of you so don’t make fun of me.”

I held up my hands apologetically. “Sorry. I just figured he’s dead.”

“Yeah, well, some things you have to take seriously.”

“Fair enough.”

Antioch got up and opened the door. The wind blew snowflakes through the opening onto the floor. Antioch grabbed a coat hanging by the door and went out. He was back in a few minutes.

“Jesus H on a stick. It’s coming down thicker than flies on a horse’s ass out there. We’ll get snowed in at this rate. I take it you’re staying the night.”

“If that’s alright with you.”

“Fine by me. I won’t send you out to your death in this weather.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Still hungry?”

“I’m okay.”

“Suit yourself.” Antioch helped himself to more soup and slurped it down. “Ah!” he said, clapping his hands together, “can’t forget dessert.”

He went to the kitchen, got something from the top cabinet. 

Antioch set a small hard candy in front of me.

“Werther’s Original.”

“Crème caramel?”

He grinned. “Poetic license.”

We enjoyed our Werther’s Originals in silence with the oil lamp turned down low. The shadows danced on the walls making the cabin seem cavernous and casting a strange light on Antioch’s face.

He clumsily offered me his bed for the night but I declined and unrolled my sleeping bag on the floor next to the stove. Antioch turned off the oil lamp, plunging the room into darkness, and was soon snoring sonorously.

I lay away for some time thinking about the day, about the unlikely friendship—if you could call it that—that I had found, about Terror and River Fox and strange people in strange places living their unique lives. 

I awoke to find Antioch stoking the fire.

“Snowed like dander from an itchy dog last night.”

I smiled. “Can we dig out?”

“We can’t go far but we’ll need to make it around to the well at least.”

“Breakfast?”

“Soup’s heating up and I’ll fry some salted pork.”

“Coffee?”

“Course.”

“Alright then,” I said. “Let’s get started.”

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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, strictly a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance, perceived resemblance, or similarity to any other fictional works, to actual events or persons, living or dead, and any perceived slights of people, places, or organizations are products of the reader’s imagination. This fiction is the result of a partnership between a human writer and the character(s) he accessed with his creative subconscious as he raced through the story with them. No AI of any kind, generative or otherwise, was used in any way to write this story.