Fortune Saves an Early Rise to the Brave
I am following Klaus Kinski around the world. I am some sort of private investigator or undercover government agent--Fox Mulder was in there somewhere, I can only assume the American government is involved somehow. Klaus has a name: Paul Dab. Again, my assumptions have to do a lot of reasoning - this is a false name. Klaus Kinski would never knowingly assume a false name so drab, no pun intended.
I forgot to mention what Klaus Kinski is doing: he is a trusted foot man for a Satanic cult with aspirations of hostile takeover. Apparently, Paul Dab is a successful rancher/scientist/charity worker. The cult is using his life's work as a front so he may track down and retrieve artifacts and information that are particularly evil - these are avenues through which the cult hopes to resurrect the Great Satan and his hordes of dark angels. Paul Dab's goat (yes, specifically goats) compounds are all over Europe, South America, Africa, the United States of America, and Southeast Asia--even Antarctica. I remember snow, and we sure as hell weren't in Russia.
My adventure begins in middle Europe. It will end here as well, but we'll have to do some traveling before we find ourselves back where we started.
I am several meters behind Paul Dab as we navigate through a busy cobblestone street. The town is very old, having retained much of the original Gothic architecture of its origins. Store fronts are quiet compared to the traffic in the streets. There are no cars, only pedestrians. One could easily mistake their surroundings for Epcot's World Showcase: costumed locals are speaking enthusiastically with tourists, who stick out like sore thumbs. I am guessing we are somewhere in Germany. This would mean that we are in Paul Dab's hometown.
I will follow Paul Dab into an enormous, ornate wooden cathedral. This particular cathedral does not have a defined axis, nor does it follow the common cruciform; it is round, mostly ambulatory with awkward aspes protruding into the sky. The facade of the building is also unconventional. There are recognizable saints here and there, but I notice quite a few figures I do not recognize. Animal heads and appendages are numerous, and every other hand seems to be displaying the mano cornuto--the "universal" sign of Satanism. Curious.
Because I am on his turf, I must stay hidden, but, again, because of his home advantage my step is forced to stay quite accelerated. Dab knows this old church inside and out and makes short work of the ground level. Discretion becomes more difficult when I follow him onto the looping staircase leading up into the steeple/bell tower. I eventually have to cease my pursuit. As we ascend into the upper reaches, doorways to conveniently hide in become less and less convenient. I do know for a fact that Dab traveled all the way up into the bell tower, but what he brought back with him and where he got it I am unaware. Perhaps there is a small satanic alter hidden somewhere in the old bell tower housing some sacred artifact. I don't know. I follow him down and back into the street when his business is satisfied.
The next place I find myself is over a chasm somewhere in South America crossing a long rope bridge. Rain forest is all around, below, above - I am engulfed in rain forest. It is quite beautiful.
The rope bridge leads to a building that can best be described as a structural hybrid between the Temple of Doom and a five star Las Vegas hotel. Themed establishments are money makers and even the Incas seem to have jumped on this gravy train. Passing through the tall front entrance will find you in an open courtyard. There are stone planters full of tropical plants and flowers lining the perimeter of the space. Glass fronts bear evidence of dining areas, gift shops, and resort activities. But Dab ignores the luxuries around him and advances through the courtyard. I follow him.
It isn't hospitality that Dab has come here for but something within the conservatory at the far end of the building. Sliding glass doors open and I enter a cramped area full of plants and flowers from all walks of life. The inside of the conservatory is very rustic. Stone planters run through the room in intricate grids; ancient woven planters hang from the high glass ceiling like canoes. Everything is over-sized.
I almost lose track of Dab in the confined space. He retreats to one of the farthest corners and digs discreetly for a moment. No one brings this into question; everyone else in the room is poking around in the dirt as well - this is the free-dig conservatory for guests, not the official Incan conservatory. I keep an eye on Dab as he finishes up his work. After a few moments, he pockets something small and makes his retreat. I follow him.
For some reason, my dream is interrupted by a medium shot of Fox Mulder standing next to his broken down car on the side of the highway somewhere in the desert. It is night time. A vehicle approaches from around the bend. The car slows and the window rolls down. It is Dana Scully.
"Do you need help, Fox," she asks.
"No, Scully. We're supposed to be undercover," replies Mulder.
"Alright," says Scully. She looks dejected for a moment. The window rolls back up.
Another interruption, this time we are seeing a public service announcement from Paul Dab, Ltd. Dab is shown smiling awkwardly at emaciated children, showing them goats and what not. The voice over is indiscernible. It very well may be Dab himself speaking. (Kinski never had a handle on empathetic speaking. An example: "Once, I took a taxi. I hate those limousines. They stink and their drivers have been driving dead people to the cemetery.") The commercial is over quickly.
I am following Dab through some sort of Buddhist garden in Southeast Asia somewhere. Buddhas tower over us, covered in vines and decay. Again, the scenery is quite beautiful. I forget what Dab retrieves here, but he catches a glimpse of me as he ascends the stairs to a temple. I pass off my presence well enough, I think. I meet his eyes casually and then turn my attention upwards toward a facade on the temple. He is not suspicious. I am an excellent spy.
Whether or not Dab has acquired all of the artifacts he needs I do not know, but I find myself back in the German town moving hurriedly up the same cobblestone street from before. This time I am accompanied by two other gentlemen, my peers in espionage. We are ready to take Paul Dab into custody.
As we take the street running east past the wooden Satan cathedral, I see Dab ahead of us. We are in hot pursuit. He ducks into a doorway to the left. When my cohorts and I catch up I can see the front of the building is made like a Greek fishing town. You know, the smooth white buildings, the oval windows...architecture like that.
We quickly make our way up the narrow stairway. It ends at an ancient wooden door. This. Is. It. Drawing our firearms, we approach the door single file. I am in the middle, a strong arm in front of and behind me. The suit in front kicks in the door. The room is very small, book shelves line either wall. It is a very dark, very scary place, even despite the window facing south. Dab is kneeling in front of a large wooden desk busily arranging something.
"Drop the contraband and put your hands on your head!" the man up front orders.
He is obviously trying to construct some sort of satanic device with which he hopes to fulfill his duties to the Great Beast.
"Dab," I say, "the jig is up. Just come quietly."
Dab spins his head around, his face frightfully contorted, and...well, he doesn't quite scream as much as he howls. It is otherworldly, full of malice and darkness. The man up front advances upon him. From out of nowhere Dab reveals a saber. He gives a mighty swing and chops off my partners forearm. It sprays blood profusely and he screams. I react by shooting Dab in the head.
Crisis averted.
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