by Bo Luellen
John reached up to the waiter and grabbed him by the apron string. In a frantic pull, he dragged the man down to the ground with him. John could feel the creature inching its way along his groin and past his testicles. Plunging his hands into his pants, he discovered a lump between his thigh and his scrotum.
The good Samaritan untied his apron and tried to escape, “Hey man! What the hell, you pervert! Let me go!”
The larvae slipped between his fingers, and the lump traveled up his hip and past his belt line. John writhed in pain on the ground, flipping and spinning on the cold concrete parking lot. He let go of the waiter and ripped off his designer dress shirt. Laying on his back, he caught the creature just before it approached his ribs. John reached inside his pocket and took out a folding knife. The crowd around him gasped, and a woman screamed, as he unfolded the blade with a shaky right hand. John brought the edge up the sweaty flesh of his ribcage and angled the point directly onto the center of the lump. He gritted his teeth and a litany of protests clamored from the onlookers. Summoning the strength to poke the blade into his own chest, John’s hand slipped over his broken ribs. The pain caused him to shake violently, making him lose his pinch on the worm. Before he could regain control, the thing had made its way up to his left pectoral, diving under the muscle. John gurgled in distress and screamed as the feeling of a hot poker jabbed into his heart.
A black woman wearing a brown parka yelled, “My, God! Did you see that thing! Something was crawling under his skin! Someone call an ambulance!”
John felt the agony turn into a tingling as if he had too much ice cream. His back hurt, and his head felt like it had an instant migraine. He rolled onto his stomach and got to his hands and knees. The woman hooked her hand under his armpit and heaved him to his feet.
In a blissful moment of release, the headache subsided at the same moment, and the chill in his back went away. He stood upright and looked around, seeing the collection of a half-dozen onlookers that gathered around him. John turned and limped towards his car.
John thought, All I would need is for this to show up on YouTube. That would be it for me. I can’t let this get out, not when I’m this close to busting the entire Crimson Brotherhood.
He settled into the driver’s seat and felt a new sensation hit him. The same warm orgasmic experience he relished when the Oxys would kick in flowed across his body. His mind went into an accentuated state of euphoria, one that he had never experienced before from just painkillers. John grabbed his own head to steady himself as the sensation began to build.
He slammed the car door to avoid being captured on camera, What is this! It feels like I’m on heroin but harder!
John’s consciousness swam in a thick soup of mixed up images. He kept getting flashbacks to the Battle of the Preserve, the bomb at Henry Jekyll’s house, then the chemically induced firebomb in the Garden District. Then he saw Amy Howard’s face. The picture of her short blonde hair and smile summoned him back into calm. She was topless, with the intricately crafted tattoos on her body seeming to float up off her skin. They glowed a deep red and shifted in patterns that made him feel calm and relaxed.
The dream of Amy reached out for him, “You have been selected by Cthulhu. Come to me, John.”
He startled awake and found himself driving down Highway 169 at sixty miles an hour. John jumped at the sudden realization that he had no idea how he had gone from the parking lot to moving at high speeds through traffic. Yanking the wheel frantically, he struggled to get his bearings and not plow into a neighboring Honda. He looked past his steering wheel at the slimy residue left behind by the creature that was now inside his body.
He pulled over and parked on the shoulder, Maybe this is all just a bad trip. It’s possible I didn’t remember taking my pain pills earlier this morning and I could have doubled up by accident.
John rested his head on the steering wheel as David’s voice came from the passenger seat, “Bad day?”
John refused to look towards the entity and yelled, “You’re not real! Get it out!”
A hand touched his shoulder, as David insisted, “Stop ignoring me, partner. We always came when the other one was in trouble. That’s what I’m doing now.”
Slowly, John opened his eyes and looked over. David Johnston was wearing his dress blue uniform but looked precisely as he had known him 4 years ago. He was mostly solid, and his black mustache framed the apparition’s chiseled good looks. John pushed his back against his seat and wept.
David flashed an awkward smile, “All that for me? I didn’t know you had it in you.”
John covered his face and trembled, “You’re not real. David’s dead.”
The ghost leaned in, “No partner, this is very real. I’ve been given a gift, a second chance to come back here. Get this, I’m here to help you. Isn’t that a kick in the butt? I get a shot at coming back from the dead, and I’m stuck with your bloated egotistical ass. Now, I need you to focus up and get a handle on yourself. We got work to do and not a lot of time to get it done.”
John looked at him with swollen red eyes, “This is all in my mind.”
David ran his index finger and thumb over his thick mustache, “I’m here because there is a purpose for you, and I’m supposed to help you see it. Whistleblowing on the police, going to the press, backing that crazy fanatical con man Greyson was all so you can make the streets safe again. That’s the John that is willing to do what it takes for the greater good. On the other hand, making Moss Vickers out to be a Crimson Brotherhood contact just so the police wouldn’t find out you were buying drugs off of him, that’s downright ruthless. Still, that’s the old John Utterson I respected! That’s the guy who is willing to make a sacrifice to execute the big plays. Moss was a pawn on the board, you had to sacrifice him to capture the queen. It’s just like you, and I used to always say, ‘Leeches need salt.’”
John reached out to touch his partner’s arm. His hand moved right through space where the manifested body of David Johnston was sitting in his car. He drew his arm back to find a thin layer of slimy substance on the skin.
David pointed at the shiny sheen, “Ectoplasm, like in Ghostbusters. The more tangible I become, the more of it I leave behind.”
Snot came out of Utterson’s nose as he muttered, “No... No... This can’t be real.”
The ghost shot his hand through John’s chest and grabbed his heart, causing searing pain to fire through his nerve endings. His body stiffened in agony, as he squirmed in his seat, trying to find a way to stop the pain. The phantom bore down on his heart, as the skin on David’s face started to droop and melt away from his skull in large chunks. Globs of ectoplasm splattered on John’s car seats and his jacket, while large sections of the ghost face liquified.
The manifestation yelled, “There are two things you can count on John! One is that this city has an infestation that needs to be cleansed. Everything we did to rid the world of the users who drained the good people of their resources, family, and happiness put us where we are today! We became addicts because we weren’t strong enough to deal with the reality of this corrupt world. We were expected to protect and serve the very villains that drove us both to ruin. The world is sick, John! It needs a cure! That’s you, John Utterson!”
David’s face was nothing more than a skull, as he twisted the heart in his hand harder, “The second thing you can count on is me, partner! I’m back, and we are a team again! I’m going to help you burn away the infection and put salt on all the leeches. Ha-ha-ha-ha!”
The image of David Johnston faded out, just as his maniacal laughter echoed into the ether of nothing. The pain in his chest lingered for a few moments then subsided. He spent several minutes collecting himself and trying to make sense of what he had just experienced. John opened the car door and threw up the contents of his last meal on the highway. His face was pouring sweat and snot as he shut the door.
John started his car and headed to his old trailer, “This isn’t real. This isn’t
real. Pull it together man. This isn’t real.”
Broken Arrow, Oklahoma - Thursday, November 15th, 2018 – 5:01 p.m. CST
He rubbed his eyes and turned his body to a sitting position on the bed. The majority of his furniture had been donated to Goodwill. It would have embarrassed him to have it moved into his new room in the Enfield Estate. Still, he kept some essentials in his trailer. He enjoyed using it as a private escape from the UCC staff that plagued him for attention. Today, it was especially useful, as he needed sleep. Waking from a six-hour nap that was plagued with nightmares was not something he wanted his UCC guards witnessing.
He pinched his eyes and reached for his glasses, I had better get used to sleeping here. Once I confront Richard Enfield with the evidence I have on him being connected to the Crimson Brotherhood, I’ll never be back. I’m sure Brother Greyson will thank me for it publicly, and he’ll be compelled to acknowledge me as an idealist that rooted a cultist from the ranks.
Behind him was a bed that was soaked with his sweat. The fever he had experienced kept a constant stream of perspiration running off his body. Three times he had thrown up on the carpet and felt like his body was on fire. John felt surprisingly refreshed and didn’t have a hint of the migraine he suffered during his slumber.
Putting on his glasses, he looked down at the blurry floor. He cursed and took them off, cleaning the lenses with a corner of his black sheets. Suddenly, he realized his vision was clear. The normal foggy nearsightedness he had become accustomed to since his vision started going in his twenties had become absent. He peered around his room, seeing each mark on his paneled walls with perfect clarity. Shocked, he sprang out of bed and walked to the hallway. He was able to see the calendar on his kitchen wall, down to the fine detail of each reminder he had penciled in.
That is when he noticed it. The weight he put on his ankle didn’t fire off any pain, and the sudden motion should have caused his ribs to give him a sharp jolt. He carefully put more weight on the foot and found not a hint of soreness. John bobbed up and down, then hopped across the worn brown floor laughing. He stopped and pressed his hand against his broken ribs only to find he had no discomfort.
Looking down, he was shocked to see his penis swinging side to side as he turned. Running to the bathroom, he turned the corner and looked at himself in the mirror. The fish gut he had since the death of David Johnston was gone. He could see his abs now, and the love handles Amy had made fun of him for were missing. John turned to the side and took in his muscular profile. He had always had a sturdy build, but it had been hidden by years of overeating and alcohol. John balled up his fist and gave his abs a rap and grinned at the lack of giggle.
He gave a nod to himself in the mirror, That was one hell of a fever. Maybe it was one of Greyson’s miracles. A blue worm and a ghost. God does work in mysterious ways they say. Those old Pentecostals must be onto something. Who knew faith healing was an actual thing. I guess God really is on my side.
He felt his energy spike, and the sensation of needing a fix was gone. It was replaced by a sense of invincibility that he never experienced before. He bounded around the house like a man in his twenties. He took a shower and got ready for his impending confrontation with Richard Enfield and Amy Howard.
John ran out into his yard and lapped around his car, shouting for joy. The exhilaration of having full use of his leg was only equaled by the wellspring of vigor he was experiencing. His Hispanic neighbor came out onto her porch to investigate the racket. She watched as John hopped up with both feet onto the hood of his car and did an Irish jig. The woman smiled and waved nervously as he froze and made eye contact with her.
John hopped down, Fuck! I can’t just show up with a healed broken ankle in public. The world watched me accept an award and do interview on TV with a set of crutches under my arm.
He went back inside and grabbed his cane, I’ll keep using this for now, and then ask Greyson to heal me this Sunday. It’s not really lying. God did heal me, I’m just rearranging the time frame.
The neighbor yelled out to him, “Señor John, it’s good to see you moving around so well.”
He gave her a half-smile, as he faked a hobble to his car, “I just got excited. I’m sure I’ll pay for it.”
He shut the door and left the woman in a state of confusion. He turned on his car and watched her out of the corner of his eye. He noticed that she didn’t have a cell phone in her hand.
David’s voice startled him from the passenger seat, “That’s right, John. No cell phone, no evidence that it even happened. Her word against yours.”
He stayed motionless as the voice spoke. John looked in the rearview mirror and saw nothing in his back seat. He slowly put the car in reverse and backed out of his driveway. He searched his mind for a solution. Reaching over, he turned on a rock station and turned the radio up.
Broken Arrow, Oklahoma - Thursday, November 15th, 2018 – 5:24 p.m. CST
Twenty minutes later, he was pulling past the UCC guards and into the Enfield Estate. Two of the blue-clad sentries saluted him as he passed by the security checkpoint. As he drove, John watched his Crusader patrols move up and down the yard checking for anything that could threaten the next Governor-Elect.
He shook his head. Amazing! Richard Enfield has Oklahoma and the United States fearing the next Crimson Brotherhood attack, while he puppeteers the UCC. I wonder if Brother Greyson is involved?
He caught sight of a new face walking along the fence line. The Hispanic man was moving as if he was in a trance, and his clothes looked unfit for the cold. John stopped his car and rolled down his passenger side window to take a better look. The figure wore only a loose tan shirt that was open to the chest, with his pale skin showing through. The look on the stranger’s face seemed distant and forlorn. John pulled out his cell phone and dialed the security office inside the Enfield estate.
A woman answered, “General Utterson, welcome home.”
He eyed two patrolmen walking in the general direction of the mysterious intruder. “The south side patrol is closing in on a Hispanic male, mid-forties, dark hair, tan shirt, and brown pants. I want him…”
The two sentries moved up to the man, and he paused to see the impending interaction. Just like how his hand had passed through the image of David Johnston, the men phased through the shambling wanderer. John let the phone drift away from his face, as the guards continued unfazed and the ghost journeyed onward.
The woman broke his shock. “General, who are you talking about. I have eyes on the southern section of the grounds right now. Baker patrol are the only people out there. Do you see something we’re not? General, shall I dispatch a response team?”
He snapped out of it and realized how insane the truth would sound, “Well done, Corporal. This was a drill. Carry on.”
John hung up the phone and watched the ghostly image as it continued to move around the edges of the property. After a few minutes, it disappeared around the corner of the mansion. John saw a few guards watching him suspiciously and took the car out of park. He stopped at the front door and handed his keys to the valet.
As he walked up to the front door, he noticed Amy Howard’s Lincoln, Good. All the players are here. Time to capture the king.
John kept the pretense of having a broken ankle and used his cane to ascend the stairs. Making his way into the house, he found Enfield’s usual hospitality. His maid, Emilia, met him and took his coat.
A sleek young woman in her twenties came around a corner, “Good evening General Utterson. My name’s Ruby Cook. I’m Mr. Enfield’s personal assistant. Allow me to escort you to the dining room.”
He was annoyed at pretending with the cane as he followed her, “I was happy that Brother Richard was able to find time to eat with me.”
Ruby paced beside him. “Master Enfield always makes time for his friends.”
She stopped and held out a hand towards a sizeable ornate hall, “Make yourself comfortable. Mr. Enfield will be with you shortly.�
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He limped into the grand room and remarked, “I’ll have a guest. Amy Howard will be joining us.”
Ruby smirked. “Of course.”
She closed the double doors and left him alone. John examined the fantastic collection of Egyptian antiques displayed in cases and on the walls. Enfield had inherited one of the most valuable collections in the United States from Samuel Howard. The oak dining table in the center of the room was surrounded by ten hand-carved chairs with golden dragons embroidered on their finely crafted seats. From the ceiling hung a row of three crystal chandeliers that illuminated every corner of the room. On the walls were massive Fresco Renaissance reproduction murals, which were hung in oak frames. The hardwood floor was covered by a silver and blue Persian rug that John avoided stepping on out of fear, tracking mud.
Richard Enfield burst into the room wearing a jet black suit, “Brother John! It’s good to see you outside of work. When you called to arrange this meeting, I couldn’t have been happier! UCC meetings are a terrible way to get to know my successor.”
John leaned on his cane and stood to reply, “Brother Enfield, I’m glad you had the time. I’ve only been to a few rooms of your estate, but this dining room is… Well, impressive just isn’t the word. I didn’t even know this room existed.”
Richard looked around at the paintings, “Some of these are original pieces. There are places in the mansion I’ve yet to explore myself. The house is so big, and there has been so much to do.”
John walked out on his cane from behind the table. “Of course. Now, this home was once owned by Samuel Howard and was passed down to you. That is a sizeable inheritance, Brother Enfield. How did you know the late Mr. Howard before then?”
The Lieutenant Governor-Elect seemed placid in the face of the question, as he marched over the bar. “Yes, we were close associates for many long years. He helped finance the opening of my firm and guided me in matters of business. His loss was a defining moment in my life. In one month, I lost a mentor and gained a new purpose.”
