Kotzenburg Ch.2

Mr. Skinner: The Glowing Harbinger of Boom and Doom

By Chris Wunderlich

                Kotzenburg had little industry to speak of after the dissolution of The Barth House for Vociferous Women and Girls of Unnourished Character. That is, until the arrival of Mr. Skinner shortly after the Second World War.

                Mr. Skinner was a tall man, bald, with eyes that appeared gray and hollow. He wore fine suits and never travelled by car, instead opting for a horse-drawn carriage. He may have been middle-aged, but his carriage gave him a Victorian sensibility—and his manner of speech further confused things, as he delivered his lines in an almost Shakespearian style. When one saw Mr. Skinner riding in his archaic buggy, proclaiming his presence in such a dramatic fashion, one could only be filled with dread. Mr. Skinner was less a man than a force of nature. He was the local harbinger of doom.

                At first, Mr. Skinner was shunned by the people of Kotzenburg. Though many were descendants of German immigrants, few would admit it after the Second World War, and Mr. Skinner was unapologetically German, claiming to have fled the evils of his country for greener Canadian pastures. Whether the townsfolk believed him or not didn’t matter; Mr. Skinner managed to win them over all the same. You see, Mr. Skinner wasn’t simply a wealthy, theatrical eccentric—he was a representative of the Hesse Company—Germany’s largest manufacturer of household appliances.

                Skinner’s first order of business, on behalf of the Hesse Company, was to purchase the former Barth House and its surrounding lands. At this time, Kotzenburg was little more than a ghost town—a regrettable stop along the railway leading from country to city (or vice-versa, if you’d gone mad). But the Hesse Company saw an opportunity. Through Mr. Skinner they set about turning the ruins of Barth House into a new factory, and almost overnight Kotzenburg transformed from national embarrassment to an industrial powerhouse.

                The building of the Hesse Microwave Manufacturing Facility provided construction contracts to the leftover stragglers of Kotzenburg, who were then subsequently offered positions in the factory. Mr. Skinner went about purchasing more land, employing more builders, and creating affordable housing for the factory workers. This attracted many from the big city, who stepped off the train in Kotzenburg without fear, most for the first time. The microwave was an invention poised to dominate the kitchens of the ever-growing middle-class, and everyone wanted in on the action in Kotzenburg.

                At this point, Mr. Skinner was a beloved (if not reclusive) hero. He’d revived the town and brought prosperity to all. But he never took responsibility for these actions. Everything he did he attributed to the will of the Hesse Company. He was but a herald, delegating managers to take care of the plant’s day-to-day operations. Mr. Skinner gradually vanished into the shadows, and as the generations passed, he became all but forgotten by the people of Kotzenburg. The town grew and grew, with factory branches springing up to dominate the landscape, allowing suburbs to spread like weeds in the cracks in-between.

                It was truly an industrialist’s paradise— that is, until decades later, when Mr. Skinner’s horse-drawn carriage once again emerged from the shadows to clack its wheels in the downtown core. By this time, Hesse had become a household brand—the most trusted name in microwaves. And slowly but surely, they’d purchased almost all the land in Kotzenburg, becoming the de facto rulers of the now-thriving town.

                Skinner’s destination, the much-loved King’s Theatre, had been built by Hesse on the grounds of Kotzenburg’s historic saloon, becoming a pillar of the arts and culture scene. Local shows proved just as popular as the larger, travelling productions. You could catch a low-brow play, a sophisticated chamber orchestra or a chart-topping film, sometimes all in the same day. The theatre employed dozens, entertained thousands, and earned a healthy net profit each year. It provided a home for the local philharmonic, inspired students to enter the arts, and proved that Kotzenburg wasn’t strictly a single-industry town.

                When Mr. Skinner stepped out from his carriage, every street corner busker, every businessman on lunch, every grocer and shopkeeper and valet and aimless, disarmed pedestrian stopped dead in their tracks. To the elderly, Mr. Skinner appeared just as he had when he’d arrived in Kotzenburg all those decades ago. To the uninformed, he was a towering, gaunt scarecrow of a man. All agreed he seemed to glow.

                Skinner nodded to those in his immediate vicinity, as one might nod to a stranger at a funeral. He entered the theatre alone, passing the cleaners and staff without regard. Henry, the theatre’s manager, was consulting with his sound technician and testing new equipment for the night’s big band revue when Skinner approached, standing in front of the soundboard until he was acknowledged. Henry, a meek, fair, round little man, was taken by surprise. Skinner raised his arms, as if shouting to the heavens, and proclaimed that the Hesse company would be shutting down the theatre, immediately. He was zealous, yet apologetic: frightening, yet eloquent. His wording was complex and dramatic, but the message was clear. He bowed as he finished, full of sorrow and remorse, then clutched his chest as he made his exit and entered his carriage without another word. Henry was left flabbergasted; his sound technician, both impressed and upset. Had Mr. Skinner not been the envoy of a major manufacturing enterprise he would have made a fine thespian.

                That was only the beginning of Mr. Skinner’s newly awakened reign of terror. His carriage would appear, without warning, on the suburban streets where factory workers lived. Like an elegant grim reaper, Skinner would knock on doors, sometimes during the day, in the sunniest, most pleasant weather—other times at night, practically glowing as he approached homes under moonlight. His lecture rarely changed—the workers, none of whom owned their own homes, were told that their rent was due to increase. If they could not afford the increase, they would have to leave. The wages at the factory would not increase—the cost of living would. In this way, Hesse maintained maximum profit and ensured their workers had only enough to get by. And this was how Mr. Skinner became the town’s regretful, sympathetic harbinger of ruin. Though he appeared truly hurt to everyone he informed, Skinner never wavered in his duties. Hesse had brought Kotzenburg to life, only to slowly strangle the town into submission.

                Some suggested that the Mr. Skinner that rolled through town, with his antique buggy, inhuman luminescence, and ghoulish demeanor, was the son of the original. Others claimed he was, in reality, the head of Hesse, feigning his role as repentant messenger. Clearly, decades of working for the Hesse Microwave Manufacturing Facility had mutated Skinner. All agreed: flesh shouldn’t glow.